Kingdom Come vol 3 no 11

8/12/2019 Kingdom Come vol 3 no 11

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I H E L I I K K A K V M A(- A / INK

KincDomc o m E

INT R 94

Walter De La Mare

Robert Herring + Francis Scarfe

Mulk Raj Anand

Paul Bloomfield + Norman Demuth

Reginald Sorensen, M.P.

J. F. Hendry 4 John Atkins

Herbert Read

Leslie Phillips + Wrey Gardiner

W. J. Turner

and others

Drawing by Conroy Maddox

Vol.3One Shilling and Sixpence

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MODERN READING

(PUBLISHEDB Y STAPLESA N DSTAPLES)

ERIC JOY SMITH, DOROTHY RUDGE,

IAN SERRAILLIER,

HENRY TREECE, GERALD KERSH,

MAURICE FRIDBERG, RHYS DAVIES,

ALEX COMFORT, A . CALDER-MARSHALL,

J. C. HALL, JACK AISTROP,L. A. G. STRONG, A . EDWARD RICHARDS,

NEIL BELL, J. WOOD PALMER,

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JULIAN SYMONS,

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NICHOLAS MOORE,

PENISTAN CHAPMAN, ELIZABETH BERRIDGE,

ROBERT GREACEN,

JOHN ATKINS, NORMAN NICHOLSON,

etc., etc. Price : 9d.

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Kinqoonic o m EF O U N D E DB Y JOHN WA L L E T TIN O X F O R D

Published by THE GREY WA L L S PRESS, BILLERICAY, E S S E X

Volume 3 Winter 1942 Number

CORTEJITSPA G E

W O R K I N G F O R W A R D Robert Herring 3

A R TA N DD E M O C R A C Y

(5) The Compose r andD e m o c r a c yNorman Demuth 7

(6) A S u m m i n g - U p Paul Bloomfield 10

THE A P O C A L Y P T I CE L E M E N TIN C O N R O YM A D D O X /. F. Hendry 14

I N F I LT R AT I O N SO F T H EM A R V E L L O U SConroy Maddox 16

P O E T R YB Y

Walter De La Mare, Herbert Read, ElizabethBerridge, John Symonds, George Woodcock, PeterWells, Harold Ad shead, Nicholas Moore, GeoffreyPar doe, Alan Rook, Dent on Welch, Henry Treece,Fred Marnau 19-27

PA R A N O I A CS T U D I E S Francis Scarfe 28

VICTORY W. J. Turner 31

THE F A C EIN T H EM IR R O R John Atkins 34

REVIEWO F B O O K SPoetry This Year Leslie Phillips 39Krishnamurti Reginald Sorensen, M.P. 4 4The Many a n d the Few (Paul Bloomfield)

Mulk Raj Anand 46Ultima Thule (Vilhjaimur Stefansson)

Robert Herring 48RussianPoetry Stefan Schimanski 49Saroyan 'sPlays John Atkins 52

"Kingdom Come" is edited by Alan Rook, Stefan Schimanski, andHenry T reece , from .32 S e d g e c o m b eAvenue, Kenton, Middlesex, towhich address all contributions should be sent .Contributors must enclose a stamped addressed envelope for the returnof manuscripts if unsuitable.All trade enquiries, advertisements and subscriptions should beaddressed to: The Grey W alls Press, Billericay, Essex.

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ROUTLEDGE NEW POETS

Not for many years has there been such a stirring of thepoetic imagination as now in this country. Poetry is beingread and is being written, and among this new poetry are newand individual voices. In this series s o m e of these n e wpoets are given a hearing. The first eight titles are as follows:

1 . THE VAN POOL, and other P o e m s ,by KEIDRYCH RHYS

2. WOUNDED THAMMUZ, by JOHN HEATH-STUBBS3. SOLDIERS, THIS SOLITUDE, by ALAN ROOK4 . THE IRON LAUREL, by SIDNEY KEYES5. A WREATH FOR THE LIVING, by ALEX COMFORT6. THE UNTRIED SOLDIER, by EMANUEL LITV1NOFF7. BEAUTY FOR ASHES, by MORWENNA DONNELLY8. THE BOMBED HAPPINESS, by J. F. HENDRY

Paper Boards, 2s. 6d. net each

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Selected with a Preface b y T . S. ELIOTIntroducing James Joyce. This S e s a m e B o o k tries to showthe continuity of Joyce's prose and how one period leads to

the next. 3/6C H R I S TO P H E R M A R S D E NPalmyra of the North. A book about the first days of St.Petersburg, full of amusing anecdotes, but at the sa m e ti m ea sober and detailed account of the creation of a Court andCapital whose grandeur by the m iddle of the eighteenthcentury was second to none. Illustrated. 21/-

E . L . W O O D WA R DShort Journey. A historian's history of his o w n life. Butit is more than an autobiographyit is a portrait of an age.Though a quiet book it is very wide in range, for Mr.Woodward has travelled much. 10/6

W O L F G A N G K O E H L E RDynamics in Psychology. Professor Koehler has donemuch to bring psychology nearer to the statusof an exactscience. This book makes good reading as well as goodpsychology. 8/6

FABER FABER LTD.


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W O R K I N G F O RWA R Dby ROBERT HERRING.

Since the war began again such a m arked differencehascome overco n tem pora ryliteraturethat i t has frequentlybeensaid a new m o v e m e n thas arisen. This is a m istake. W h athas happened is that a n u m b e r o f young writers have wontheir way to recogni t ion .

The war has helped,o f course, but their m o v e m e n thad

begun before. T h e war has helpedbecause it has broughtin to the open m u c h o f the dissat isfact ionfelt with the writingo f the years before. F a c e d with the e n d o f a way o f living,readers found in retrospect ionthat m u c h o f the writing hadled them nowhere. T h e writers them selves,as is usual with,any genera t ion over takenby war, felt guilty. To-day theyeither indulge inrec rim ina tiono f each other, orblam e their

era. Thisb lam ingusually takes the f o r m o f tartly tellingtheir successorstheir place, without any suggestionthat thesem a y be aware o f quite differentpro blem s tosolve.

W e have m uchtalk o f the needfor the artist to re-orientatehim self,o f his socialduty to the c o m m u n i t y,and , rather slyly,o f the im por tanceo f his allyin g him self withthose who areonly beginningeither to read o r to write. Most o f this c a n

be answeredby the statem en tthat an artist 's first duty is tobe an artistin tra in in g, perfo rm an ce,self-disciplineand ,above all, consecra t ion . T h e trouble with past years has notbeen so m u c h that a few have l ived in ivory towers, asthatfar too many havepreferred bakelitebungalows. It is thetaste as well as the need for this latter fo rm o fhabi ta t ionthatm ust be rem o ved. You do n o t do i t by making literature abattlefieldfor class-warfare,n o r by concent ra t ingo n e c o n o m i cor other m ateria lquestions. A writer's m ainc o n c e r nis, andm ust be, with the Spirit; m a n y writers ofthe last few yearshave shown little awarenesso f that , andhave also shown fart oo little spirit them selves. There has been t oo m u c h kowtowing toa public op in ion m o rearticulatethan in form ed,a n dwhat was wanted hasbeen a little m o r e o f the spirit whichen abled W ebster, inhis in t roduc t ionto The White Devil, toevince beco m ing truculenc e .W h at has really been wanted,indeed, is that writers shouldn o t be dull dogs. That said,


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4 KINGDOM C O M E

o n e has said a lm o s tall. But I am n o t writing prim arilyo fthose o f the Awkward Era. I a m writing of thosen o wworkingforward,a n d to unders tandthefn i t is as well to clearup a few o f the m isco n ception s un derwhich their predecessorsworked.

It is very proper that poets shouldsho w them selvesresponsible people,aware o f what is goingo n a n d using the m aterialo f the t im es. It is so proper that there should be no needtom a k e a song a n d danceabout it. A n d it shouldhappen subn o t selfconsciously.Peo ple m ake m uchto-dayo f cond i t i onshaving alteredfor the poet; rival c la im so n his readers' leisureare held toentail that he should identifyhim self m o r e thanhitherto with the public. It is forgot tenthat to-day a writerhas opportuni t iesto broadcast ,write film co m m enta ries,a n din general reach the public in m a n y m o r e ways than wereopen to writers ofother ages. A s t o cond i t i onsbeing distracting,n o doubt at o n e t ime a Spanish fleet a n d at anothera D utch , somewhattook people 'sm i n d s off reading. Plaryersand dram atis tshad to put up with plague; poetswith Puritans;wars were n o t u n k n o w nin the eighteenth centuryn o r socialunrest in the nineteenth.Yet all the tim e poetssaftg. S o m ewere heard, others died before they were heard. But theysang.

To-day i twould seem that the song the sirens have taughts o m eo f us is to whine. And the whineis "I want to go h o m e . "

It has long been a tenet, which I have yet to see provedfalse, that poets, even bad ones, are ahead o f their t im e. Iwould say that the poets of theAwkwardEra were the poetso f appeasem entappeasem entof Demos , whom theyhadm a d e d ic t a to r andD a d d y.

Outside the professionalpsychologists, theywere the firstto m a k e the journey o f what for sim plicityas well as swiftness, I will call Oedipus-in-boots. They were aware of thefam ily-fixatio n . They broke away. They advancedto thetribe-unit.

T h e same thing is n o w happeningpolitically. At o n e t imea country 'ssymbolwas its king o r la patrie. That m o thero rfather concep thas n o w been scrapped. W e hear less in thiswar o f Br i t ann ia o rJohn Bull. It is the State, the C o m -


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W O R K I N G FORWARD 5

muni tythat is the newguilt-sym bo l. The State is larger thana country,as hum an i tyis larger than a person.

In the Awkward Era this increase in largeness, in scope,mean t crack-up. T h e old idea o f the individualpersisted,but that individualhad to bear the weight ofthe avalanche-like movemen ttowards integration. Symbol o fold concepts ,he yet had to be receptacleo f tides that had n o other outletsave through the old,narrower channel . It was enough atone tim e if am o n a r c h c o u l dbe seen at stated tim es by his

people, a n d Queen Victor iacould refuseeven that. To-day,o r was i t yesterday, thePubl ic Figure had to facebatterieso flights, cam eras, m icro pho n es,journalists, w h o m populareducat ionhad m a d eno longeradoring. But ,despitem e d i c i n eand m ake-up,he rem a inedthe sam e chem icallyc o m p o u n d e d ,forked radisham a n . One by onei t proved toom u c h forthem ; one by onethey went downthe heroeso f another

age, sacrificedto the newLindbergh ,the Pr inceo f W ales,Gracie Fields, ton a m e three of large following. Parallels inother walks of life are n o t hard to find. M o d e r n publicity,which m e a n t m o d e r nworship, was t o o m u c hfor the old-style figure. A n d m o dern worsh ipm ean t ,o f c o urse, m erelythe old needfor a new fo rm for the same belief. M o d e r ntim es m e a n t sim ply that the calf , onceso friskly worshipped

as sun -sym bo l,b e c a m e coa ted in gold, paralysed, lost itsvirtue (movement ,life) and, stuck in the mud , b e c a m ereviledas idol, no t god. It was shownto have feet ofclay, whichcracked.

The poets of the 'thirties knew this, in which theyweretrue to their t im e. But they knew nofurtherinwhich theywere n o t true to their art. For the poet is n o t m erely the

voice o f his tim e,but its breath, withoutwhich i t c a n n o tsing.It is n o idle m a n n e ro f speakingto say that a poet 's head isin the clouds. It is his feet, a n d his feet only,that should beo n ro ck-botto m . T hepoet who takes his 'head out o f theclouds (and, ofcourse, it is abo ve them , tho ughthe publicc a n n o tsee that) a n d c o m e s d o w n to earth, cannot breathe,c a n n o tspeak, c a n n o tsing; he gets not only smoke inhis eyes

but m u d slung a t his head. Hebecomes ,as it is so easy for apoet to become,the village idiotwhipping-boy,instead o fHigh Priest.


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6 KINGDOM COME

T h e poets who failed them selvesbefore thewar (which iswhat i t am o untsto) had no t i tin them t o b e c o m em o r e thanHyde Park priests; that still left them unsatisfied,compla in ing ,able to feel new statesm en . B y Keepingoff the Grass theythought they would escape having to tread o n ground theystill felt to be holy. For i t is o n e thing tobe aware o f theFather a n d o f one's selfand agreat thing. It is another tobe so aware o f one's self that one c a n be the Father. Thiso n e c a n n o tdo unt i lo n e is integrated,co m ple te .

At this point i t is necessary to observe that by theirbowing to a polit icalt rend they should have beenahead of,those poets fell down/ Jack-and-Jill-wise,on the wordindividual. Psychologically,that was what they wantedto be,but politically they were afraid o f being. They hadem bracedtheir doctr inesas substituteonly.

It has been left to their successorsto answer thatthefam ilywe run away f r o m o rget free of, is in each oneo f us.T h e m uch beli ttled" individual" is to-day n o longer seen asan egoist, but as an accre t iono f cells. It is the artist's duty,his pleasure a n d purpose, so to order his own cellular lifethat others accrue. T o the order o f his ownoctagons others

respond. Individualm eets individual,n o t as before, only aspart o f a - whole, but each by virtue ofhis own co m ple tion .The future lies n o t in enlarging our view f r o m the m o s tapparent side but in using the m o s t neglected sides, too, tof o r m a whole (instead of anetwork o f gaps).

W e m ust be glad that there was an A g e o f A n alysis,but

we are evenmore

grateful to those writerswho have workedforward to synthesis. For analysis that goes n o further thandissect ionresults in disintegration.W e have got beyondthat.W e have got, too , beyond the niggling fears which makeListenerso f those who should be learners. T heartist who isintegratedn o longer fears thepublic , nolonger fearshim self.Co m ple te in him self,he speaks as a m a n f o rMan. Men,seeing light i n h i m what is but d im, though dark in themselves, return h i m to his rightful placeaboveo r aheadandthe poet sings who has but lately lectured.


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RT ND DEMOCR CY 5 n d

THE COMPOSER ND DEMOCR CY

by NORMAN DEMUTH

It has beenrightly said by Mr. R . K e n n a r dDavis that Freed o m is interpretedby m a n y as the right to follow one 's o w npersonal incl inat ionswherever they m ay lead. Freedo m ,inthis sense, m ean s everythingto the co m poser,and o n paperi t would appear that in a democracyalone c a n he enjoy thisbenefit. I am n o t prepared to enter into polem ics o n the

nature a n d substance o f dem o cracy,but if i t is really theantithesiso f T o ta li ta rian i smthe compose r can regard thewhole world as his own,outsidethe A x i s n o ta bad prospect.

However, when we get away f r o m paper, the si tuat ion isnot qui teas rosy as a t first appears. In this countrywe area t liberty to c o m p o s ein any style o r i d i o mwe like, but thisliberty is owned at the expense o f all " official" recogni t ion .

A n y compose rdar ing to express him self inunfam iliarte rm sc a n be assured o f but a lim ited audience,s ince " what thepapers say " plays far t oo great a part in the fo rm ula tiono fop in iona n d taste. H e will, therefore, be assured also o fvituperationin the capitalistpress, sincethe press alwaystakethe l ine ofleast resistanceand printsm ain lywhat readerswantto read.

Other countr iesview things differently,a n d while al lowingfreedo mo f expression,go a little further. For exam ple,Franceinsists on a h ighpercentage ofFrench music o n its Radioa n d in its Nat iona lOpera, but there is n o nat iona lpublishingc o n c e r nas in P o l a n d a n d the U.S.S.R. Thus French c o mposers have certain rights.

T h e U.S.S.R. goesstill further. I ts Govern m entis prepared

to f inancea n d support its co m posers ,regardingthem as contributoryto the na t iona lculture a n d heritage. Providedthat" the goods are delivered" each year, everyone is content .The works are auto m atic ally perfo rm eda n d published; butthere is a price to pay. Co m po sersm ust writein a m a n n e rwhich is acceptable to all a n d sundry at a single hearing.The works m ust have a direct bearing o n life. There m ustbe no " rom an ti ca l(sic) vapourings" (I q uote from theofficialm an ifestosent me by the U n i o no f SovietCo m posers) ,no merefo rm alism ,and insp i ra t ionm ust c o m e f r o m the g o o d


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8 KINGDOM C O M E

r ich earth, f r o m feats of engineering,etc., a n d all introspectivee m o t i o nis banned;even gipsymus i cis f rowneduponas t oo sensual. T o ensure that the musicis o f sufficientsocia]significance,the co m poserm ust be prepared to explain himself a n d answer quest ionsas to why he used cer ta in progressions a n d chords a n d exactly what he " meant" by the work.If his explanat ions areconsidered unsatisfactory,he ispenalisedby the rem o valo f certainprivileges. The resulto fthis c a n be seen in the gradual decl ine o f the inspirat ionalurge on Shostakovi tch ,the feebleness of the once vigorousProkoviev,a n d the ephem eral o utpo urin gso f Khachahour i an ,to say no th ing o f the suprem e dullness o f the veteranMiaskovsky. It appears that the Soviet democracyprovidespract ical recogni t ionat the expense ofartistic a n d aestheticfreedo m . It is better to write adull sym phon yabout Leningrad than an interestinga n d emot iona lp o e m about introspect i on

A sim ilar si tuat ionheld sway, curiously enough, in Naz iGerm an y,but the Hunsdiffered in their tactics. Taking 19thand early 20th centuryR o m a n t i c i s mas the ir no rm ,the Nazispilloried a n d r idiculedeverything outside the t radi t ion as" decadent ,"but at the same t ime they forbade the exporto f the official article.

In n o countrydoes the co m poserhave fewer rights than inBri ta inindeed,his only right is to write as he likes. N oo n e is under any obl igat ionto play anythingBritish a t all.T h e painter has exhibit ions,a n d there is a certain sum o fm o n e y put aside by the Go vern m ent fo rthe purchaseo fpictures. The Roya lA c a d e m ythrows a terrificpoliticalpartya n d feasts a n d m akes m erry in its Galleries. T h e co m poser,havingwritten his sym pho n y, requires about eighty skilledpeople to play it. If he is n o t " in thecircle" he turns himself in to a c o m m e r c i a ltraveller a n d approachesthe best conductors he knowsand theB.B.C.; conduc torshave littleinf luence as they are engaged by societieswith no subsidy,a n d the concertshave to pay theirway. T h e B.B.C. is undern o obl igat ion toperfo rm an ythingin particular,a n d providedthat i t fills up its allotted hours theMusic Sec t ionfeels thatits duty is done. T h e c o m p o s e rwill lose sightof his scorefor m a n y m on ths,a n d even if i t is accepted i tm a y be a year


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ART AND D E M O C R A C Y 9

o r m o re beforeperfo rm anc ean d thenhe will have to beresponsiblefor the orchestralm ateria linvolving,in the case

o f a sym pho n y,an expenditureo f s o m e 40-50. Publ ica t ionthis is n o t a hum orousarticle.W e m a y live in a democracy,but the only benefit the c o m

poser reaps is that in our o w n brand he is perm ittedto writehow a n d what he likes.

Our dem oc racy,therefo re, m ustgo further a n d be radicallyoverhauled. There is a danger that after the war there will

be too m a n y compose r s compos ing inthe eveningsas a sideline. This will never do. The true dem oc ra ti cstate m ustplace its m usical reso urcesat the disposal o f its co m posers .T here m ustbe a levelling-upa n d a pooling. A perfo rm anc ein Bournemou tho r To o t i n gBee m ust have thesame s tandingas one in L o n d o n . To-day theopposi te is the case, a n d n om atter how perfect theperfo rm anc ein B o u r n e m o u t hm a y

have beenor how execrablethat

in L o n d o n ,the latter willalways " count ." T he slate m ustaid its composersin a practical m a n n e r by giving them libera l condi t ionsin which tolive a n d work, o r by augm entingtheir present facilities. T h enat ionalR a d i o system m ust be forced toallocatea high percentage ofits hours to m usic b y livin gco m posers,serious aswell as light. Thus all types o f co m po serswill have the righto f perfo rm anc eunder the bestcondi t ions ,a n d will not to haveto crave the favoura favour governedby the aesthetic prejudices a n d personal dislikes of a co m m ittee. T o ensureim partiali tythese commi t t ee swill Ixave to be changed everyyear.

A t the same t im e, theco m poser has got togive a n d showsomethingin return. It will be n o g o o d his putt ing forwardthe plea that

inspi ra t ionwas lackingin

poin to f fact, the

new cond i t i onswill stim ulate it. I am n o t suggesting thatall composersm ust go hay-wire in order to c ultivate " T heNew Art," but there m ust be no d ic ta t ingo f styles o r id io m s.This is another danger, a n d I have heard disturbing discussions by earnest L eft-W ingersas to what and how music isto be written.

Our new dem o cracy,as the co m posersees it, is o n e whichem braces thebest from thesystem already hi pract icethatf r o m the U.S.S.R.a n d our o w n present freedo mo f expression.


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10 KINGDOM COME

It will em brace a general levelling-up so that a "Prom"per fo rm an cewill have the same s tanding as a " SymphonyConcer t ,"a n d a studio P i a n oRecital a t 08.30 hrs. the samerem unera tionas o n e at 20.30 hrs.

(6) A S U M M I N G - U Pby PAUL BLOOMFIELD.

S o far in h u m a nhistory therehasn't been m uch dem o cracy,but o n the other hand,luckily, a fair a m o u n t o f art. Forartists aren't usually poli t icalan im alsso m u c h as non-pol i t icalopportunists. W h o could suppose that artists in Office wouldhave m a d e the world what it is?

T h e title " Art a n d D e m o c r a c y" suggests apro blem . Thereis certainlyn o " a n d " about i t unless we choose. W ell, we

have chosen; that is, we are asking what artists cando fordem oc racy,a n d what d e m o c r a c y c a ndo for art.A rtists, I say, have never held Office. They have, how

ever, constant lybeen s t rong in Opposi t ion .H o w is this?Because oftheir fam ous in dividualism . A s in dividualistsi tm ust be adm i ttedthat they are som etim es solic i to usfor otherpeople's individuali t ies,n o t always for their own. Thus they

are m o r eexciteda n d outragedby o n e gipsy being sent to gaolfor fortune-tellingthan they are exciteda n d pleased bya scoreo f astrologers astrologisingin co nfo rm i tywith the law. Itis their tendency tofeel like this which o ften m akes themrepublicano r d em o c ra ti cin sen tim ent . T hisis why there isnoth ingparticularlyincongruousabout the "and" in "Art a n dD e m o c r a c y. "

A ll thesam e,as Mr.L e o n a r d

W o o lf po in ts o ut, great artistshave lent lustre to ages o f despo tism . Though somet imestheir m asterpieceswere m o r e subversive inin ten t ionthan theauthorit ieswere allowedto guess, Marx was wrong to thinkthat the finest literatureproducedunder ca pi talismwas alwaysin the nature o f a protest againstsocial injustice.Very ofteni t was, n o doubt , a protest againstm a n 'sinhumani tyto m a n ;but social equals c a n be very savage with oneanother. A n ds o m egreat artists have been Ishm aelites,like Gauguin;bandi tslike Cellini;o n the snobby side, like Henry Jam es;while the


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ART AND D E M O C R A C Y 1 1

Bonapartist-liberalStendhalc o m e s out all but Fascis t inLaChartreuse de Parme. W e probably don't think o f C o u n t

Moscaa n d the brilliantSanseverinaas Fascist ;and the reasonwe don't is that they are unvulgar. Many peopleconcea lf r o mthem selvesthe fact that they hate Fasc i sm n o t only becauseit is undem oc ra ti cbut because it is also d a m n a b lyplebeian.There is noth ingOld School Tie about Hitler o r Mussolini;noth ingin the slightest degree aris tocrat ico r even, indeed, inthe best sense m iddle-classabout their ideas o f life, or inthem selves o r their entourages. A n d when blue-bloodaristocratsally them selveswith Fasc i sm it is worth no t i c ingthat their tone, so to speak, beco m es co arse,a n d takes on ahectic, hystericalcharacterwhich the bitterestenemy o f privilege doesn' t regardas a real attribute o f social nobili ty.

N o w those artists who lend lustre to despotic regim es d ono t necessarilyidentify them selveswith despo tism ,even if n o

subtle protest against i tc a n be discovered in their works.Polit icshave n o t always been mixed up with everything.D etachm ent fro m publicbusiness has n o t always seem ed sodifficult,no t to say unworthy,as i t does to m a n y g o o d peoplein this intenseage we live in. W e needn ' tthink o f R a c i n e a n dMoliereit wouldbe rather foolish to think o f them assomehowabett ingthe extravaganceso f Lou i s XIV a n d hand-

in-glove with his hard-facedin tendantso f f inance. O n thecontrary,we m ightsay they helped to m a k e a m e n d sfor s o m eo f the bad, oppressive thingsd o n e in that reign. A rtistshavealways been m u c h less dependento n the society inwhich theyhave lived than Mr. KingsleyMart inm akes out; i t strikes m ethat Mr. Wool f is wise to stress the poin t that it is usuallydangerousonly for writers n o t to be bien pensant, and in

thinking "that Bach, Mozart , Schubertand probablyB r a h m swould have written greatmusic inany society." Mr. Mart inis altogether exaggeratingthe solidarity ofsocietywith itself,a n d o f artists with it , whenhe says that the artist " c a n n o tcreate without experience; hec a n n o t live without m eans; hec a n n o twork without a public." Experienceis relative. Outo f her no t very wide experience Jane Austen wrote s o m e

m asterpieces. Means,in the sense of regular payo r m in im umsecurity, have been lacking to in n um erable ar t is ts ,who have,like R em brand t,gone to the wall because there was no public


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12 KINGDOM C O M E

t o d e m a n dwhat they, thank God, were de te rm inedto supply.I f Mr. Er ic Newton 'sallegationis true, that our dem oc ra ticpublic to-day chiefly wants plastics, telephonesand,golf clubs(that is, applied m ass-producedarticles), s o m e o f us are stillgoing to uphold the righto f artists to work acco rd ingto theirlights, evenif i t m e a n s starving. Anyhow, we believe withHeine that we m ust judge an artist by the standards, sometim esnew ones,to which heappeals: n o t always byreferenceto those establishedby co n tem po ra ryprejudices. Otherwisehow could art ever be " creative"?

Cons ider ing howsensitiveMr. D e m u t h is to the drawbacko f the kind o f censorship which Soviet authoritieshaveim posed ,in the egali tarianinterest,o n Russ iancreatorso f newm usic , hem ight bethought to und erra tefro mhis o w n pointof viewwhat he describesas the British co m poser's"onlyright ": the right t o composeas he likes. In the present state

o f public taste in m usic , Mr. D e m u t h will call in vain fororchestralperfo rm an cesin To o t i n gto have the same standingas those in cen t r a l London ." Standing" is a very delicatem atter, I will venture to opine. Laws won ' t legislate in toexistencethe sort o f people whose approvalwe value, n o r doI suppose that pollinga m ajo r ityin s o m e Mass Survey popularity-test would give a compose r half the satisfactionhewould get f r o m a pat o n the back by a single Master. A n d Idoubtwhether livingco m po serswill get anythinglike their duef r o m British broadcas t ing while the m on opo li sti csystemcont inues .

I f m y last paragraph is unfair to Mr. D e m u t h i t m ay bebecause I, rightly o r wrongly, am m o re in terestedin whatart is ts cando for the co m m un i tyle tm e even say " dem o c r a c y"thanthe o therway about .

Mr. Read, who both is an artist a n d knows what artists arelike, generouslytakes therisk o f appearingun sophistica ted, an dtreats " the artist" as if he had, as yo u m ightsay, a naturalfunc t ion in society, though soc ie tymodernsocietyisartificial. W hoeverknows what artists arelike knows theyare m o r e than averagely prickly, incalculablea n d jealous o ftheir o w n idiosyncrasies. (A fr iendwrites to m e: " W henyoudiscuss m y pictures, forheaven's sake don't compareme withany otherbloody painter.") However, totry to help us get


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A R T AND D E M O C R A C Y 13

som ewhereMr. Read generalises. He justly saysdefendingartists f rom the charge o f being ant i -socialin their ego i smthat, after all, what they are constant lyexpressing,each in hispersonal way, isn't m erely them selves: i t is, he says, " life-expression" that gives them their inspirat ion. H e goes on:" The life which is expressed in great art is precisely the lifeo f the c o m m u n i t y,the organicgroup-consciousness ."

But I don't believe that Mr. Read will want to confutem eif I go further a n d define the life which is to be expressedasthe life of the world, thelife o f life: n o t only the life o f thesocial isedh u m a ngroup, n o t only the life o f individualpass iona n d spirituality, but the life o f the fields a n d trees, of theflocks a n d herds, o f the seed-bearing windsa n d fertilisingwaters. These are all part o f our great dem oc racy. S o forthat m atter are the wild beasts in their jungle a n d the greatblizzardsa n d sto rm s. They are m o r ethan the contextin w hichh u m a n insti tutionsare set, they are cond i t ionswhich havecond i t i onedus; they are part o f us a n d we are part o f them .W hat would art be doing, expressing only the " group-consciousness"? Aswell turn Christ ianScient is tat o n c e anddeny painout ofwhich, asout o f typhoonsa n d the bitterness o f death, artists have distilled s o m e of the beauty thatlends dignity toour civil scram ble.

S o again,while I agree withMr. Read's other affi rm ation that the artist 's func t ion in m o d e r n society is to be thecounterpartof the medic ine-manin prim itivesociety, a n d t om edia te" between theindividualconsciousnessa n d the collective consc iousness"Ifeel obliged to go further a n d toobserve that the m edic ine-m an 'sfirst jo b , m o stimportant jobby far, was to m edia tebetweenm a n a n d the life o f the world.H e had to m akethe sun rise regularly a n d to coax the riverin to f loodingat the proper tim e. Just like an artist he tendedto get all mixed up with the life o f the world: he becamethe sun, he directed therain, he splashed in the river a n dgargled m agic allywith its water, a n d he sent people leapingabout the fields identifyingthem selveswith' the harvest.

Though I am n o t exactly preachingR o usseau o r W hitm an ,not ice that these two are im por tan tsaints inthe democra t i ccalendar. Nowhere is what I am dr iv in gat. In our futuredem oc rac iesthere is going to be a trem endo usdangero f what


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14 KINGDOM COME

o n e m ight call technicalparo chial ism . E v e n highly a c c o mplished technic ians areoften quite incapableo f seeing lifeasa whole: in an age of busy specialisation therisk is thatpeople will b ec o m e m o rea n d m o r e isolatedin their jo bs, m o reand m o r ecut off from o therpeopledo ingother kindso f work,and, above all, estranged fromthe life o f the world in thesense I have been using the phrase. It is the funct iono fartists,as I see things,to live a n d express the life o f the world,

-and so to go o n touchingthe imag ina t iono f their fellows toa lively sense o f c o m m o n h u m a n i t y. W h e n all is said,mach inesare wonderful,but except to the rare inventoro fgenius him selfthey are nothing,N O T H I N G ,beside the superlative m e c h a n i s mo f m a n 's strong a n d beautiful body a n d theriches ofpoetry in his soul.

These two articles conclude the "Art and Democracy" series.Previous essays by Herbert Read and Kingsley Martin appeared inNo. 9; by Leonard Woolf and Eric Newton in No. 10.

No- 10 is now out of print but the whole series is being reprintedin WAR-TIME HARVEST, an anthology of Kingdom Come writings,to be published shortly by Staples.

A few back numbers of KINGDOM COME are still obtainablefrom the Secretary, 32 Sedgecombe Avenue, Kenton, Middlesex,price Is. 8d. post free.

T H E A P O C A LY P T I C E L E M E N TIN CONROY M A D D O X

by J. F. HENDRY

Not every painter has an apocalypt icelem en t,that peculiarvision whichgrasps elem en talforces either in birth o r dissolution, a n d fewer still are capableo f expressing that vis ionwith the-posit iveclarity involvingwill.


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C O N R O Y MADDOX 1 5

In the works I have seen o f C o n r o y Maddox it is by n om eans alwayspresent. Often, to m e, it ' is obscured bymanneredexperim en tin ipontage a n d collage in which itselem en tal fo rces sim plydo n o t exist; a n d yet one o f its m o s tsuccessfulappearancesseems so far to have been in the useo f frottage: the picture entitled"Transformation." Here isn o artificialm on ste rsun-bathinghis bones on the beach,butthe weird isolat iono f so m ethingelem en talwhich has still tobe seen against the backgroundo f living.

A phrase o f Maddox is espec ially revealin g. H e speakso f the metamorphos i so f im ages. It is surely this m e t a m o rphosis which we have ultim atelyto grow i n to a n d to cont ro lby the full exercise ofour powers, reason, that is, pattern,included.

In "Anth ropomorph ic Landscape"we see elem en talfiguresagainnot apocalypt icbecause I feel they are past history,part o f us, but n o t the m o s t excit ing part, the present,horned a n d hoary-handedabout to found together woodsa n d stream s a n d seas, yet dest ined always to r e m a i n m a na n d w o m a n . This is an interestingattem pt to create eternalforces, to visualise tim elessness,which is doubtless why itseems to have little purelyimmed ia t e impac t .

S im ilarly,with "La*Chair en Fleur" we see what surelymight be called the act o f creat ion itself, the h u m a n fram espringingf r o m the earth underthe beneficentinfluenceo f aforce which m ay, o r m a y not , be sun. Root- l ikeveins, feetlike hens,tendrilsa n d spurs a n d leaves a n d shootsm o u n tupthrough the skeletal fram e into theeyes in whichconsciousness no t unt ingedwith terror is beginningto dawn .

These are definitely apocalypt ic im ages because theyexpress the silent, invisiblebattle o f creat ion against theforces o f total death: they are the clues we are seeking; a n dthe fluidity of l ine a n d poetry of expressioninherentin themis a guaranteethat they are very m u c h alive.

I could wish that Maddox was n o t quite so dem o n stra tivein his prose. The opera t iono f reason and logic is n o tinvariably "in fam o us." Only false reason and logic areinfam o us. Equally in famousa n d disgusting is false poetrya n d false art, the e m b a l m e dm u m m y - a r to f the A c a d e m yforinstance.


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16 KINGDOM C O M E

A c tually,when he stateshis belief that the d r e a m is c o mplete consciousnesshe is n o t escapingf r o m sciencebut m erelyhelping to enuncia tea new t ime: theory; a n d in any case,surely, complete consciousnessincludes the intellectas theyear includes thewinter. D r e a m shave their o w n incrediblelogic. Our old logic is being over thrownif you like, as wasEucl ideangeom etry,but to c la imlogic is in famousis to denyf o r m in art and nature ,to deny pattern a n d the aestheticexperience, delighta n d terror, love a n d fear, a n d to live ina duller world in consequence . Besides what happens topoor old necessity? That I had takento be logic.

There is a logic o f the personality,a n d that logic Maddoxfollows out inexorablyin what I hope is his search to isolatethe apocalypt icimage.

r o m I N F I LT R AT I O N S OF T H EM A RV E L L O U S

by CONROY MADDOX:

'7 have seen in the clouds and in spots on a wait what has arousedme to fine inventions ." (Leonardo da Vinci).

U n d e r the m a g i c im pulse o f various technicalprocesses,

exploiting thepossibilitiesin acc iden ta n d surprise, surrealistpaint ingtraces the contourso f the poetic im agea n d bringsi n to ci rcula t iona new m ytho lo gy o fdesire.

T h e early experim en tso f Max Ernst in collage, which hehas describedas " the cutt ing up o f variousflat reproduct ionsof objects,o r parts of objects,a n d the pastin g themtogetherto f o r m a picture o f someth ingnew a n d strange," were the

first illustrationso f a m ore spo n taneousa n d direct activity,a n d a decisive step towards theunders tandingo f our autom atic ac tivity, the deliveran c eo f our archaicunderworld.

Collagebrings i n to play the m ultipleaspects ofthe psychological dispropor t iono f the elem entso f a natural event. B ythe i so la t iono f cer ta in photographicobjectso r parts o f objects,i t is possible to retain a series of dis locateda n d disquieting

images that only needs reshuffling in order to create theunexpected. B y a selectiona n d rejection i tis possible to


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CONROY MADDOXIllustration to "Knight and Devil" by Stefan Schimanski


20/58


21/58

INFILTRATIONS OF THE MARVELLOUS 17

make with the aid o f glue a n d scissorsan entirely new f o r mo f art freed f r o m the consc ious control , for the resulting

picture im poses i tso w n concepto f what is real. It createsnew pro blem s a n d offers new solutions. T h e unforeseenappears in a new light dic ta tedby desire.

Collagebelieves in i ts ownreality and its o w n identity. Ithas neverat tem ptedto im itate pain tin g,althoughat o n e t i m ei t rather sought to go beyondi t a n d to be even m o r e revealinga n d denuncia tory.

The very selectiono f an apparentlyi n n o c e n tpor t iono f ano bject fro ma photograph holds our at tent ionby the con -ca t ina t ionof ideas a n d associa t ionsthat have gone to theparticular choice a n d the symbol i sm that is revealed. Atypical ins tanceis the electricla m p that Picab iaincorpora tedin to one o f his collages a n d which for us becomes a younggirl.

I was m a d e particularlyaware o f the signif icanceof thissymbol ismin one of m y own collages,and , needless to say,astonishedby what it revealed, fo rat n o t ime dur ing themaking o f i t was I , o r so I im agined ,conce rnedwith anything otherthan co m posi tion al req uirem ents.I was naturallyaware that I was juxtaposinga n u m b ero f i r rat ionalim ages,a n d was especiallyfascinatedby their differencein size. Thisout-of-scalenessin collageis a reassert iono f what m ight becalled the giant co m plexthepeculiar desire, unsatisfiedinour tim e, fo r enormousan thro pom o rph icm o n u m e n t s towhich Paul Klee so adm irablydraws a t ten t ionto in a paint ingcalled "The Bui ld ing of the M o n um e n t," representing anarmy ofworkersabout to co m plete the bui ldin g o fan i m m e n s ehead o f a m a n , a round which they have erected scaffoldinga n d ladders.

Yet under cover o f these preoccupat ionsfeelings m o r edeeply imbeddedin m y nature did n o t fail to take this opportunity o f expressing them selves. My collagewas built uparound the bearded a n d dignified head o f an old m a n , a n dim pelled bya growingresen tm ento f the m an 'sface, its air o fcomplacencya n d lack o f sym pathy, I subjected it to avic t im sationo f a kind which is inherent in the process o fcollage. I fixed an imageof a board acrosshis nose,r emoved


22/58

1 8 K I N G D O MCOMEthe right eye, and hid the other by a cloak th rown over hishead. W hile between his slightly parted lips I placed thehead of a rodent . T h e place, orrather out-of-placenesso f thehead, for I had propped it up in the brancheso f a tree, no tonly calledparticular a t ten t ionto the im age,but acknowledgedits im portanc e ,its " upraisedness,"and was an i nd ica t iono fthe seriousnesso f the desecration. I was expressingin concrete fo rms an unconsc iousdesire to stigm atise the G o dimage .

If collage is d o m i n a t e dby a desire to interfere, i t is theprocessk n o w nas deca lco m an ia ,o r stains, in whichwe recognise assistance. W hereas collage introducesthe use o felem ents foreign to paint ing, the ready-m adeobject, decalc o m a n i adoes not consis tin the i so la tio nof a particularimagef r o m its natural enviro n m ent. Other forces are at work;unconsc iousprocessesin whichis revealed for the first tim e

the invisiblesecrets of a unique reality. T h e inca rna t ionofdesire.T h e first experim en tsin this field o f auto m a ti smm a d e by

D om inguez to the m o strecent use o f i t m a d e by Max Ernst*provides us with sufficient evidence toreassert that autom a t i s mcannot be conf inedto the free play of the unconscious.It m ust always be at the service o f the elaborat iona n d

crea t iono f new poet ic images.N o painter conf ron tedwith the m o n o t o n o u srepet i t ion andlack o f progressin his use o f the involuntaryprocess c a n failto see the necessity of goingbeyond a mechanica l accep tanceo f the first results.

T h e fungi-like all-overness o f the first deca lcoman ias i nwhich, whenwe have disco vered so m ething,we are nota t all

cer ta inwhat i t is we have discoveredhas a m arkedsim ilaritywith Matta's fluid use o f oils. For it seem s that Matta isnever capable of settinghis im agessufficientlyo n their feet,,we are constant ly awarethat they are fo rminga n d refo rm ingbefore our eyes without at ta in inga realisationin reality.

It is for the artist to rem a inm aster,however desperate thesituation. The incontes tablefailure o f pure au to m ati sm ,thatis unassisted,withoutconsc iousintervent ion,is its inabilitytoprojecta poet icimage .


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P O E T RY 19

WALTER DE LA MARE.

H A RV E S T H O M E

A b i r d flies up f r o m the hayfidd;Sweettodistract ionis then e w - m o w ngrass;But I grieve for its flowersla id low at n o o n d a y,

A n d only m y poor Alas

I grieve for W ar's inn o cent lo s tones,

For the broken loves, the woe,T h e godlike courage, the bitter end;The shudderingfaith, a n d the lightless N o .

O bird, from theswaths ofthe hayfield,T h e ranc id stench ofthe gratesA soul strickenmute by thisharvesth o m e

Yet nought but this poor A las

HERBERT READ.

F O R M Y D A U G H T E R SSECOND B I RT H D AY

Sleep, Sophie, sleepunder our mouse-brownthatch:

the sunflowerslike sentinelskeeptheir silent watch.

In the pearly skythe hunchbackedm o o nis walking awayhe has caughtunderhis a r m the reluctantdaya n d you will be two when hereturns.

Two yearsa n d a daya n d a tonguethat is beginningto talk.Oh, long may,you babble like the crystal becka n d leave learningto the o wl

W h o is screechingin the witheredoako n the other side o f our road.The spidersare now weavingtheir m idn ightwebsa n d the dew has fo rm edto freshenyour morn ingfeet.

Midnight, 617 Oct., 1941.


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2 0 KINGDOM C O M E

ELIZABETH BERR1DGE.

I N V O C AT I O N A N D R E P LY

Gone a re the laughingvoicesand the voices forsaken.Gone the tears o f the happy onesand the happy ones' laughter.

For the laughter o f the gay onesm elted the spiri tand their tears healed the world.

Weep now, O ancient ,weep for your love-days.Cross hands a n d m u r m u rprayers fastas the priest prays.

"Can the tears o f the joyful onesc o m e a n d recover m e ?C a n the laughterof the m erc ifulonesN o w discoverme?"

Yes, fine tears a n d laughterTogether will deliver

Yo u a n dthe world a n d your sorrows forever.

JOHN SYMONDS.

A U T U M N A N D W I N T E R

There is noth ingso sadA s leaves falling through the rainAnd the soundo f a little coughW hile the ho usegrows d a m p .

It is t imeThat the yellow sunflowersFaded in the sitting-ro o m .

Outside the snow fallsfor the first dayAnd the Master hasn't spokenfor three weeks.


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P O E T RY 21

GEORGE WOODCOCK.

E N D OF A J O U R N E Y

The breedingclouds eclipsedthat country 'ssun,E a c h year the sentim en taledificesGrew greenas moss upon the soddenplainO f the ageing m i n d , a n d the tokenfacesTha t are never o ld movedin the wearingra in .

It was a year o f death to enter inthat l and ,E a c h day another death forthe lapsing soulA m o n gthe breastyhills, beyo n d thewhisperingsand.There were n o voices, a n d the air was still,A n d the flitting w o m e nwere lam e, a n d deaf, and b l ind

For over all that co un try ruled the en igm a,

Life had n o atiswer, death n o t any endIn the untilled valley's weepingsummer,T he m eagretrees, swept bya silent wind,Lingered l ikespectres by the Lethean river.

This was the l and where our desires had led,^his the d i m Hades o f unspeaking wantW here there was n o m o r e evil, n o m o r egood.In to a prison o f m ist the sky was bentOver the dead earth o n whichwe s tood.

PETER WELLS.

P O E M

In this m o m e n t o fsea brawl and angel ic c o m m a n d m e n tthe fiery winds have knit m e about with tongues oftem pest:I am cha inedby the woodenbranchesof wreckedships,the fingerso f octopusreach to me ac rossthe hollow beach^

Yet, in despair, I sit a n d cogitateu p o n reasonsfor the madnessin m e;a n d f rom afar I hear the seasons singing,and a golden girl bringingfrui t from her garden.


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2 2 KINGDOM C O M E

WREY GARDINER.

WA I T I N G F O R T H ET H U N D E R

A m b i g u o u sand angular the haunted face o f Ti m eSharpens thes tone on wizardryo f skillOracularand still,L o s t in the lovely shades of heaven'sv e n o mPoised fearfullyon the steel th in path

A m o n gthe poppies o f the untilled fieldW aitingfor the thunder a n d the drum so f wrathTo burs t upona hum bledworld.

Agued a n d dim the c lo istered tho ughtso f Ti m eBreak u p o n the willful rock o f fearAnd d a m p the wing the unwieldlywearW h o trail their broken clouds abo ve the to m b,And wander n o w the brilliantlam ps o f h o m eBereavedo f the last star's light, the darkenedsunT o cope with the full fierce f lood o f azure dreamW here the sadearth turns hunted blood to stone.

HAROLD ADSHEAD.C R U E L AV I A RY

Nowhere in this cruelaviaryA r e signs o f love;

A m o n gthese ruthless ca r r ionfowlC a n live n o dove.

T h e eagles from theirlofty cragBesidethe sun

Have swoopedso swift a n d silentlyAnd n o t spared one .

The hawks havefollowed in their wakeW hile yet they m a y

T h e kestrels hoveredin their flightFor lesser prey.


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P O E T RY 23

We, to o , haveseen the falcons fallOn b i rdsasleep

W hile vultures long await the cal lTheir feastto keep.

W e soo n shalle n d cruel aviariesF o r all aggressed;

A n d set aside a sanctuaryW here doves m a y nest.

NICHOLAS MOORE.

F R O M MERCY INTO INNOCENCE

In the trium phan tdale the m a d m a n ' shornsGrew out o f m ercyi n t o i n n o c e n c e :T h e prattlingboy, of all his troubles shorn.Met the bright girl with swirl a n d twirl and f lounce.

A r o u n dher neck he twined a r ing o f daisies,That she m ight be the pretty queen o f May,A n d she took h i m t o her tranquillity,That he m ightlearn a n d love. Her face c o m p o s e s

A ll the unm erciful, un generousthornsTha t pricked himin to life, a n d all his sorrowsD r o p off h i m like the snows. G o n e early errors,The new begin wherethe old ones were b o r n .

Legs run, legs runn ingwhile the newsboysshgjitThe garrulous,unwit t ingnews o f wars,Girl-boy a n d m a d m a ntwistingworlds about,The peacock hasits beautyand thewhores.

A n d in their wreaths o f snows the soldiers lie,The hot b lood quakes in m a n y a lover's breast,Until peaceful acrossher bodydiesThe worn-outprattler a n d the jaded beast


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24 KINGDOM COME

GEOFFREY PARDOE.

I M O G E N

There is n o grossnesso f her: every grainIs goldf r o m Land o f Faery; her life's sparkFirst grew a n d glowed in the beginning'sdark,And is reborn to shine o n m e again.There is n o touch c a n soil her: every h a n dSet o n her is m a d ehallowed. N o dark thought

Is in the strongmesh o f her spirit caught.S peak m alice,a n d she will n o t understand.Her light, straight body is a sacred flaskF r o m a deep still well o f love; a n d her dark eyes,That seem to know a n d ever seem to ask,A r e two bright worlds o f subtle purities.Her sure-self,soft in her soul's lull,is wiseIn this dear day, to do the daily task.

ALAN ROOK.

P O E M

W h at are you seekingd o w n in the valleydark hairred carnation?T h e seed o f the c o r nthat changethn o ta n d the deep life well.Ripe is the corna n d goldenClear a n d alive the well.W ha tare you singingd o w n i nthe valleydark hairred carnation?T h e song o f the apple branchesrocked by the rain to sleep.

Ripe is the c o r n a n d goldenClear a n d alive the well.


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P O E T RY 2 5

Say what sickle was Itdrew the b loodfro m yourcheek

dying the hair o f your branchesrocked by the rain to sleep?

Pale a n d calm thefacesrocked like a tree to sleepweeping the apple b los somrocked like* a m a n t o sleep.

Ripe is the c o r n a n d goldenClear a n d alive the well.

I do n o t want itthe blood o f m y brotherlaid out like silk

.from an easternrobe.

I do not want i tthe life of my brotherlaid.out like winespilled inthe evening.

I do n o t want i tthe pa in o f m y brotherthe lonely ache

o f new-cutbranches.I did n o t ask i tthe death o f m y brothera desert of lightbeseechingwater.

W hat a reyou do ing

d o w n in the valleydark hairred ca rna t ion?I watch the b lood o f the dying cityS o m e o n ehas cut the throat o f the oldcityT h e co ld whitenesso f an i m m e n s esorrowTeachesm e a song whichc a n purify theearth.

Ripe is the c o r nA live the well.


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2 6 KINGDOM C O M E

DENTON WELCH.

P O E M

K n o c k aga in when the wind is wet,W hen thed o o r swings free o n its hinge.K n o c k a g a i nwhen the walls are bare,W hen thegrate is choked with dead coal.

K n o c kwhen the stairs creak,K n o c kwhen themice sc ream,K n o c kwhen the birdsfoul the floor.K n o c kwhen the cobwebs coverthe pane.Don't knock for m e a n y m o r e

HENRY TREECE.

VA R I E D G R O W I N G

T h e body grows as brick o n brickBuildshigh the m a n sio n m a deby m a n ;But spiritc o m e s to plenitudeA s no te o n note createsa tune.

Leaf with leaf m akek n o w na tree,A s birch by beech give n a m eto wood;But what the lim itso f delight,A n d which the worlds within aword?

Before the tonguefalls back to restA n o t h e rlie has angeredGod.Even the sword m a i n t a i n i n gpeaceRusts quietly in last year's blood .

T h e hand that carves for m a n ' s increaseOf pleasurespoils the gracefulstone,O r showingtruth in child o f love

Turns back to face a facelessb o n e


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P O E T RY 2 7

FRED MARNAU.

LONDON E L E G Y No. F I V E

Throughoutthose nightsfrom Chri stm as toNew Year,in the first season ofwar, them istlay thickerthan snow. I s tood by the edgeo f the street, ofthe street like an "ocean,seeking the Heart .A n d chi ldhoodrose up in pictures. S u m m e r,coo l a t eventide. A gloria.A ball flying high a n d the voices of chi ldren.The hovels o f the poor a n d au tum nin the D a n u b ewoods; fish-netsco ld in the wind .D r e a m pictures of winea n d harvest a n d hunting,a little

old-fashioned. T h e n c a m e a grave a n d m a n ya snow-coveredgrave. Later, friendsfollowed,a n d poets and prophetso f worthy hum an i ty.T h e n joy floweredslowly; look, the house o f freedomwaxing large.But then disgracefell upon uswith achingfingers we groped for theroots

o f what, o n c e was g o o d ,the bridge ofour lofty labour brokenby vanitya n d tyranny.F o r us, too, o ur hom elandhas died,homelanda n d freedo m together havevanished.

But h o m e l a n dasks m o r e than freedom ,

a n d f reedomm o r e than ho m elan d :both dem and theHeart .

T h e m a n whose heart does not err,the m a n who o f love n ever .tires,the m a n who sets off sorrow with sm iles,never fearing thec o m i n gu n i o n with those

who have died; who stands out boldly for right:there beats the Heart .(Translated by Leslie Phillips.)


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PA R A N O I A C STUDIESby FRANCIS SCARFE

I.The chi ldrenwere playing in the park at sunset. It was

the hour when theyplay m o stseriously, for t ime is growingshort. T h e hour when the whip grows i n to the hand, whenthe rolling hoop , kept upright by m o t i o n , assum es all theprecariousnesso f one 's o w n life a n d hopes. T h e hour whenthe doll sm iles a n d closes its eyes, when the castle o f cubesfalls with a crash a n d whole arm ies o f lead soldiers returnreluctantlyto their boxes.

T h e chi ldren were playing in the park at sunset. T h eleaves were falling,gyrating like yellow tops to the ground.In the winter the childrenwill laugh at their skeletons,whenthe weeping trees stretch their handsl ike starved oldw o m e nto the sky.

T h e swans werepreparing forsleep a n d the lovers for love,the swans drift ingaim lesslyon the dirty watero f the lake, thelovgrs kissingunobservedat corners .

A s the chi ldren playedin the park at sunset the old watch-m a n , a b l i n d m a nwith a whitestick, went tapping d o w n thealleys, his iron ferrulebeat ing t ime with the bells as theystruck nine .

I was s tandingat the edge o f the lake, hoop in hand , watching the rings broaden roundthe spot where the pebbleI hadth rown had fallen. T h e rings werebroadening ,the ferruletapping, thelovers whispering,but it was b e c o m i n gso darkthat I could scarcely followthe wideningrings. A s the clockstruck nineI lifted m y heavy white stick suddenly, told a

boy who was s tandingby the lake that he should go home ,a n d went slowly on my way,tapping with myferrule o n theasphalt atevery third step.

II. The Poet.T h e sky has that opaque grayness which, though veiling

all the heavenly bodies,is still sufficiently t ransparenttosuggest that so m eth in gis happeningin itsdepths. Mounta insrise o n either side, so steeply as to carve the landscapein to


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. PA R A N O I A CS T U D I E S 29

a lm o s tparallel ravines, so dark anddeep, so filled with gasand vapours that noth ingcould possibly live in them.

A large cage o f copperwire, with a concre tefloor, is floatingrapidly intothe dis tance between the m o u n t a i n a n dtheclouds. F ro m i tthe poet, leaningout o f his bed, is gazing ina m a z e m e n ta n d despair.

T h e scene suggests,by the growinglum ino sityo f the copperwire, the clear-cutprofile o f the m a n a n dthe changingshadesin the gulleys, the hour of dawn.

III. His Wife.A w o m a n ,whose head appearsby s o m e m isfo r tuneto be

elongated,is sitting forlornlyo n s o m e invisible object. T h eobject is invisiblebecause she is sittingo n it. But she seem sstrongly awareo f its presencea n d clings to it with onehand.Her hair flows l ike sand to her feet, falling there in shapes

that recall the petals of s o m e giant flower.Beh indher all is darkness,but the lightsh in ing onher faceis so powerful as to project an im age o f her face o n theground, so that her sad eyes look out o f the m o r n i n gdew.W hen questionedby strangers, she replies that she onlyimaginesshe exists, a n d breaks in to tears.

IV. A Vision.A subm ergedcity is rising f r o m the bed o f the A tlan tic .

T h e waves beat wearily r o u n d the balustrades. T h e roofs arecrystallinein shape,a n d s o o n i t is evident that the city consists entirely of palaces, eachbuilt in the fo rm o fa sign o fthe Zodiac . F r o m the windows,f r o m which greenseaweedhangs, lean n um ero us oval heads encrusted with m o lluscs.

These are the people who long ago c o m m i t t e d tem porarysuicide. I rem em ber.

V. A Dream.The dissectingr o o m is so vast that the farthest wall c a n n o t

be seen. It is so e n o r m o u sthat the r o o f c a n n o tbe seen withthe naked eye. T h e Eiffel Tower, if screwed for a m o m e n to n the roof o f W o o lwo rth 's bui ldin g, c o uldenter the d o o rupright. T h e floor a n d the two visiblewalls are decora tedwith a chequerpattern rem in iscen to f c a l m Dutch interiors.


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30 KINGDOM C O M E

Six prostrate bodies, draped in red, arel ined againstthewall. A tall h o o d e d figure is bendingover a glass table, o nwhich a seventh veiled body is lying. O n e gathers inst inctively that the upright figure, who holds a large razor in hishand , and the six bodies on the floor, aswell as the unconscious figure lyingo n the table,are o n e a n d the same person.

VI. The Poet.A s he floats through the air, puttingthe last touches to his

toilet in his wire cage, the poet sees in his shaving-m irro r achim n ey-stac k,bearing a m arble bust o f Napo leonat SaintHelena o n which the strongest rayso f the rising sun are concentrated. Shavingfor the last t im e, hefeels runningd o w nhis cheeks the bitter tears o f his a b a n d o n e dm istress. Thisreal isat ionmakes h imsuddenly stop,throw his razor in to theabyss below,and , seizing the wires o f his cage, stare widelyin to space in search ofher. H e begins to wonderwhether heis really alive. It is true that the cage in whichhe is sailing tohis d o o m is only a crea t iono f his m i n d , but he understandsonly t oo well that, should he dare to quest ionits existence,the cage would vanish i n to th in air a n d he would fall headlong into thevalley.

VII. Journey.T h e pattern o f love, your fortune o n a card co m ple tewith

weight wheneverthe sun goes down. Landscapeo f sparkingplugs a n d frozenoil, the sheer waterfallso f absence,cataractso f n ightm ares thun der in gthrough em pty streets till earlymorn ing . T h e yellow leaveso o z e d o w nthe avenues waitingthe sweeper, serieso f shirts a n d underwear wave goodbyef r o m the lanes, the wakeningcows are startleda n d s tand stillin the fields. At the level crossingdisasterclasps your hand,a w o m a n ' sa rms are point ing theway f r o m which you shallnever return, you feel suddenly as old as a slab o f ice in al and o f perpetual win ter, you alm o stplunge through th6window inthe tunnelin search ofyour lost chi ldhood. Your ememberhow the waves dancedo n the shingle, the lawn ass m o o t ha n d am ple as a lap, thet imewhen younearly drowneda n d the sea in your ears was call ing youaway to distantco untries, pro m is in geverlastingwarm th,the sighing o f palm


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V I C T O RY 3 1

trees and the singingin the eveningo f indolentnegresses. Today is the same old story, for you will always be afraid to beyourself. S o o nin the darkness youwill be free to weep, a n dif you have never lovedthe rest will be easy.

V I C TO RYA Fable by W. J. TURNER

A new Commander- in-Chiefhad been appointed.His ap

poin tmentwas due to cont inuedill-successin the war. This ill-successwas no t owing to the incompetencyo f his predecessorwho had provedhim self to b ean able and experiencedsoldier.His predecessorwas no t a geniusand the new Commander- in -Chiefs youthful belief was that he him selfhad lost some o fits earlier vigour. This was the fruit o f experienceno t theresult o f age; he was only fifty-eightand al thoughnot nearly

as quickas he had oncebeen he was full o f vitality. Thismo r edubious attitude to his own geniusmight well have beentaken as evidencethat his power o f m i n d had increased.

H e had a long talk with his predecessorafter takingover."I wish you luck," the latter said, "but the situationis no tgood. U p to now we have deserved tolose and I am no t surethat we do no t deserveto lose still; but thingsare m u c hbetter,

as you have seen." The two m e n had been over thegroundthoroughly together and the new Commander- in-Chief knewwhat the posit ionwas. "I believe we are going to win. O fcourse it won't be our own fault; rather that our opponentshave taken o n too big a job."

"I am glad youlook at it like that," said the other, "theyhave had m y sym pathyto some extent, although it would betoo much to say that they have deserved all the success theyhave had."

"Yes," replied the new Commander- in-Chief ,"I agree it iswe who haveachievedtheir success a nd s o o n they will earnours."

"I hope you are right," said the ex-Commander-in-Chief ."W ell, m y dear fellow, once again, good-byeand good luck."

As he went away he thought to him self,"He deserves m yplace for he is a m o r e opt imis t ic man;but I wonder if he isright in his judgm entthat our opponentshave bitten off m o r e


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32 KINGDOM COME

than they c a n chew. I don't see how the other fellow c a never be the judge o f that. W h o c a n set a lim itto what a m a n

c a n do?"T h e new Commander- in -Ch ie fhad no tyet chosenhis Chiefo f Staff. It was, however,n o ta pro blem .H e had a clear ideao fwhat m a d e the co rrec t co m bina tiona n d o f the necessaryrelationshipbetween the Commander- in -Chie fa n d his right-hand m a n . T h e Co m m ander- in -Chie f shou ldbe a geniusim agin ativeand therefore inventive;o ptim istica n d therefore

adventurous. His secondshould be the opposite: pessim istica n d therefore careful; m ethodica la n d m issing no detail.H eknew the m a n he wanted a n d he sent for h i m .

"I want you," he said to h im , "because you have thequalities Ilack, o r which at least are notpre-em inen tin m e,"he added as an afterthought.

"He does n o t inspire m e with confidence" would haveex

pressed the d i m feeling unspokenby the chosen No.2 afterhis interview,though he did n o t so m u c h as fo rm ulatei t in hiso w n m i n d a n d m erely replied: "I shall do what I can ."

They began to worktogether. T o the asto n i shm ento f theChief o f Staff everythingwent well. It is true that he couldnot unders tandhow i t was things did go well for them . Theideas o f his superiorwerenot entirelyto his ownsurpriseunor ig inalideas. W hatevergenius the Commander- in -Chie fpossessedi t was a genius for the obviousbutandhis No. 2could never unders tand whythe enemy never seemed toexpect the obvious.

The fac twas that the head o f the enem y'sforces was a m a nof real genius quite incapable by naturein spite o f hisregular traininga n d experienceof amedioc reo r banal idea.The ideascarefullya n d thoroughly put in to ac t ion by theChief o f Staffof hisopposingCommander- in -Chie fwere sohackneyed,so c o m m o n p l a c ethat every o n e o f his stupidestColonelscould havea n d would have thought o f them , butthey were alwayssuccessful. Being so obviousas to be unexpected, they invariably producedthat elem ento f surprise tothe enemyso necessaryin warfare andthey were well executedbecause everyone could easily unders tandthem.

T h e init iat ivewhich the enemy C o m m a n d e ro f genius a tthe beginningo f the Wa r had boldly seized, a n d used with


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V I C T O RY 33

such ability as to gain victoryafter victory, had by the m erepoliticalpro longa t iona n d extensiono f the war passed tohisopponents . T h e stars in their courses n o w fought againsth i m and, finally, the war was won by the side that, for thefirst few years, had lost every battle. T h e tr ium ph of theCommander- in -Chie fwas co m plete . H e was lauded in thepress as the greatest soldier o f the age a n d his Chief of Staffshared in his prestige. T h e knowing ones even whisperedthat all the ideas had or ig inatedin the brain o f the Chiefo f Staff a n d that the Com m ander- in -Ch ie fwas only a figurehead, though a fine one .

O n the day o f the arm ist ic ethe Chief o f Staff was sittingin his office, a very pessim isticm a n . H e felt hum iliated,rem em beringthat he was a t the beginninga little surprisedat their o w n success. H e had long s ince learned the lim itat ions o f the Commander- in -Chie fa n d he knew nowthat their

o p p o n e n t was a g reat com m ander,a m a n o f genius. Inhundredsof newspapersthe portraits o f him selfa n d his ownCommander- in -Ch ie fappeared side by side. H e was amodes tm a n but he felt unc o m fo rtable . Seized by a suddenim pulse hewanted to expresshis professionaladm ira tion fo rthat great enem y so ldier hehad beaten. ' H e took a telegramf o r m a n dslowly started to write out the n am ef " General ."but what could he say? A wave o f bitternessswept in to hismind . " W h o am I to congratulateh im ," he thought, "I whoam be-photographedin,every newspaper. Hehas failed a n dis i t n o t just, that in this m o m e n the should be forgot tenbythose who achieved as well as by those who recognisesuccess?" H e dropped the pen a n d tore up the telegram .A t that instant the Co m m an der- in-Chief entered ."I havebeen thinking o f sending a telegram to General ," hesaid to the Chief of Staff. "That's odd," the. other replied,"I had the same idea but I foundI could think o f noth ingtosay." "O, that's sim ple," replied the Co m m ander- in -Chief,"there is only o n e thing to say. I hope you k n o w m e wellenoughno t to think Idon't know agreat soldierwhen I havefought h i m W hile everyoneis belaudingus let us wire h imsim ply: * T h e Com m ander- in -Ch ie fa n d the Chief of Staffjointly send you their deepest adm ira tion an d thei rheartycongra tu la t ionson the glor iousvictory we have achieved


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34 KINGDOM COME

together.'" " Yes," slowly respondedthe Chief o f Staff, ashe wrote thewords, "that truly expresses what I am glad tosay we both feel; but, you know, youare always a little impulsive. A s i t stan ds i t m ightbe m isundersto o d,if everm a d e public. Shall we n o t sim ply say:

/ Forgive us our victory? '"

T H E FA C E IN T H E M I R R O R

by JOHN ATKINSI worried thelife out o f Edward Crane for over a year/ I

was de te rm ined to get in by the front door. My outputdur ing those m o n t h swas trem end o us. At first I used to postm an uscr iptsoff to h i m as s o o n as I had co m pletedthem ; Ibarely gave m yselft ime to run through them , so anxiouswasI to get them off before anotherday began. I could n o t bearthe thought o f o n e o f m y sto ries lying idlein m y o w n r o o m :it could lie idle in a pillar-boxo r in a sortingoffice, o r eveno n Crane's breakfasttable, but at least i t would be o n theway o r even there. But after s o m e weeks I began to fashiona system . S o engrossedhad I b e c o m ein what seemed to bem y miss ionthat m y early im patien cegave way toa determ inat i on based on ara t ionalschemeo f conduct . I wrote steadilythrough the week, a n d only put everythingtogether i n to onefat package on the Friday evening. Then i t was addressedto E d w a r d Crane, Esq., Editor o f The Viking.

E d w a r d Crane, w h o m I had never seen, ruled m y life m o r eeffectivelythan His Majesty'sGo vern m ent . L ikem aijyyoungm e n o f that tim e I believed that Crane had more togive usthan any other m a n living. W h at a profoundexperience itwas to read his m on th lyeditorialso r o n e o f his occas iona lessays o n a subjectwhich n o n e o f us knew anythingabout:Life a n d D eath. H o w satisfying,after the facilesuperficialityo f the press, with its bogus m o ra li sing a n d its hackneyedcodes, to sense, if even for a few m inuteseach month , them ystery that lay beneath the things we saw a n d touched.E d w a r d Crane, alm o st a lo n e , d idthis for us.

I could sense the m ystery,a n d I felt I could add to it. Itold Crane so in story after story, article after article. H e


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THE FACE IN T H E M I R R O R 35

ignored them , returning them with sm all blue slips bear ingalways the sam eco ld m essage. First of all I was astounded.H o w could a m a n o f Crane 's intell igence treat work, theresult o f so much pass iona n d so little sleep, in so disinteresteda m a n n e r ? I torturedm yselfin a m illioncont rad ic toryways:m y belief in m yselfwas without founda t ion ;I had m isjudgedCrane; he was t oo busy to look carefully at everything hereceived;he wanted tosave all the thunder andthe glory forhim self; he wanted to pick brain s. B utthese were poorexcuses; I always returnedto the originalfearperhapsI hadnothingto say beyond anaive revolt againstthe success ofo ther m en , a revo ltas naive a n d despicableas the m i n d s o fthe very m e n I hated.

A n d so when I had m y first real c o m m u n i c a t i o nf r o m CraneI was unpreparedfor it. I stared at the short notein histiny, neat handwri t ingfor several m in utes ,thinkingo f other

things; after all this tim e I found it practicallyim possibletofocus myat tent iono n the magic in m y hand . W o uld Icallo n Mr. Crane at 8 o 'c lock next Thursday? He would liketo see m e a n d speak to me. Meanwhile, he would keepm ylast batch o f stories a n d poems until he saw me. H e was,m i n e faithfully, Edward Crane.

A ll the lost m o n t h s suddenly rushed throughm y m i n d in

procession. S o I had n o t been unno t i ced Them entaltossings, the alm o st abjectappeal for recogni t ion ,had beenstored up in his m ind un ti li t could hold them no longer,a n dthey had burst out , overrunninghis consc i encea n d his consciousness. W h atwould heoffer m e ? Perhapsonly a cornerin the next issue o f The Viking;but perhaps more ,perhaps thestatus o f a regular contr ibutor,a find; perhaps lunch witha

publisher.W h e n I got there it was dusk. His house, I realised with

disappoin tm ent ,was m u c h the sam e as everyother in thesquare. But so unstable was I that I im m edia te ly revo keda n d delightedlymused o n the varietyour civil isationenclosesbehind sam eness;here the Rigveda,there Paul de K o c k , a n din the cornerthe Daily Express. And the d o o r opened.

A little m a n , n o m o r e than 5 ft. 4 ins., s tood before me.For some reason or other there was n o electric light in the


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36 KINGDOM C O M E

hall, so that he s tood there with a candle held beforehim.T h e effect was peculiar; all around h i m I saw nothing,butsensed a hatstand, antlers, prints o f Arcadia ; but very dist inctly I saw a broad face with irregular features, a slightlyopened m o uth ,a considerablebristle on the chinbelow a n deyes which seem ed t o m o c krather than welcome. But it isdifficult for m e to describeaccuratelyhow he looked to m ethen, as the im press io nI took away was inevitablythe averagedisposi t iono f features influx.

H e asked m e in. At first I didn't realise i t was Cranehimselfnot, that is, until hespoke. But his words were carr iedin tones o f such quiet delicacythat I knew i t could be noneother thanhe. H e had the gentlenesso f the thinker a n d theweariness ofthe reader.

I sat d o w n o ppo site h imin an arm chair. This r o o m , likethe hall, was also unlit except by candles. It was apparently

a peculiarityo f Crane 's which I did not dareenquire about,but which could obviously beexplainedin a numbero f ways.It m ight behis eyes, or his head, o r his brain, or his heart,or his hands. Besideh i m was a little table, litteredwith papers,ash trays, boxes of m atches a n d c igarettes, m agazin es,a n deven the m o stunaccountab learticles, such as a m u s h r o o mfor darn ingsocks a n d a h a n d m irro r.

I prepared for a cultured, expansive evening. I lookedaround m e a n d was trying tothink o f somethingpenetratingto say; I fum bledfor cigarettes,but before I could offer h i mo n e he pickedup s o m e papers from the table a n d began totalk. H e just went o n talking, hardly stopping for breath,a n d I listened,first as a disciplea n d finally as 1 will when Iam dead .

" Yo u are a m o st persisten tyoung m a n ," he said,""so Ithink i t is t ime I spoke to you about your work. Don't letyour hopes fly high, because it will be unfortunatethere'sno th ingI c a n offer you. I don't want you to bebruised, orgo away with a grudge. Hundreds o f young m e n try everyyear to explain why the sun shines a n d how rabbits m ultiply.A b o u t two every century succeed. A b o u t two. Somet imesless. N o w take your work. There's som ethingin i t I admire a sort of precis ion,I should say, which takes you to theheart o f your targetwithout havingto groper o u n d the edges


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THE FACE IN THE MIRROR 37

first. That 's a very useful gift, but it's n o t the whole.W ithoutthe pass ionor,to be vulgar, the literary gutsyou

will never appeal. A n d rem em ber th i sanartist withoutappeal is a crow without wings. Yo u have to be as ruthlessas you are considerate,as aggressiveas you are m eek."

H ow lon ghe went o n like thisI don't know. T he rem a inde rI heard like the sea ^draggingf r o m the shore, o r like a c o mm a n d dragging co urage fro m m y lim bs. W h e n he hadf inishedorperhaps he hadn't even finished,for i t is difficult

to see how one c a n finish som ething whichhas no shapeo rfo rmhequite suddenly gotup, m urm ureda few words o fapology, a n d left the r o o m .

I canno tdescribe them isery I was in. I c a n only hint atit by vague symbolsmy nosefelt n u m b as though i t werebleeding, I broke out in to a prickling sweat. A fter sittinghopelesslyin m y chair for a tim e I could n o t m easure I got

up a n d strolled across ther o o m a n d back, across and back.Why had he invitedm e here, if only to insult m e ? H a d Ibeen such a nuisancet o h i m that he was prepared to injurem e a n d break m y spirit for his o w n peace o f m i n d ? A n d whywas I left alone like this? T o lick m y wounds? Orfo r himto coo l his censoriousardour?

I looked at the table a n d the papers lying o n it. O n top

o f them all was one o f m y o w n poems. I had spent five weekswriting i t , doingso m ethingto i t at least three tim es a weeka n d consideringi t for the rest. N o w here i t lay, a slenderthingo f twelve lines,a thingo f precis ion,yesbut nopass ion?I picked i t up and readtwo l ines:

His questions sack my ears, bum my citadelHis least nuance is powder to my brain.

Quite suddenly I saw it. T h e p o e m had, outwardly, n obearing o n Crane or, indeed, o n a n y l iving person. But i twas essentiallyan analysis ofhis relationshipto m e, asm aste rto pupil, as cause toeffect. T h e " He " o f the poemwas G o do r Shakespeare,Voltaire o r even Crane. It was a m issile Ihad flung by accident ,carelessly, a n d it had hi t Crane o n anerve. Everythingwas perfectly clear. T h e whole

tenoro f

m y work had exasperatedh im; finally, after m o n t h so f goadinghe had learnt that his o w n exasperat ionderived from him self


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38 KINGDOM COME

I felt n o w that I could n ever face himagain. I could n o teven bear to write toh i m again, oreven carry the thoughto f

h im. I hastily snatchedup the papers, n o t troublingto makesure whetherthey were allmine. But the last sheet uncoveredthe m irro r, an dfor a secondI s tood gazing intothe eyes,the features o f Crane .

I looked over m y shoulder, but he was n o t there. I ranm y hand over m y jaw a n d up across m y face. It seemedthe sam e. I glanced again,fearfully, into the m irro r,a n dhardly n o w k n o w what I saw, evenafter the passage o f a fewyears hasattem ptedits usual job o f conf in inga sensat iono ra feature in m e m o r yto one o fits thousandvariants. But whatI saw wasa thousandvariants revolvingi n a thousandmore .Like a haze featuresthat appeared to be m y o w n swam o nthe surfaceo f the m irror,while behind,like a sullen sky, werethose o f Crane's. T h e n the haze seemedto evaporate andthe

sky loured until theeyes seem edto stream with l ightninga n dthe m o u t h writhed like the tortured sides o f a geological rift.Just as i t seem ed that the brittle glass m ust be shattered bythe rock hell within i t a faint light seem ed to searchi t f rombehind. Overbearingin front, powerful and arrogant ,thereflectionwas a sullen fog behind, retreat ing andbeing dissipated by the enemy in the rear. At least, that's how it

seem ed to me; in a m a z e m e n tI watched thecont inua lm etam o rphosis, the shifting a n d changing, the never-endingrenewal. And all the t ime in m y head r an the words: "Thisis you Thisam o rpho usmass o ffo rms a n d vapour, with allits absence o f character a n d sits unbelievableem ptin ess,isyou See that crackedrock o f red granitethatis a photograph o f your pretence See that film o f red gauzethatis

your o w n flim sy self, happy even to provide an ineffectivevei l Howhard you try to be someone ,a n d yet you c a n n o teven be yourself "

I turned and hurr iedto leave thd r o o m ,but met Cranea tthe door. H e was surprised to see m e still there; he expected m e to havegone s o m e tim e ago; his expressionshowednot only surprise but also a faint disgust a t what he probablythought was m y in sensitiven ess.

H e said: "Oh, you're going?"


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THE FA C E IN THE MIRROR 39

W itho ut th inkingI said: " I've just looked in the m irror.It was a m istake. I didn't m e a n to."

" W h atd id you see?" he asked." I don't know," Isaid, c o n fusedly."It was horrible."T h e nI left.

I did n o t write anotherword after that until I dec ided torecordthe inc ident ,which I have done wi thfar less ease thananythingelse I have ever written. I have lost what facilityI had. But what is m o re in terestin gis that I never saw

another wordo f Crane in print; he even droppedThe Viking.T h e whole direc t iono f our lives seems to h an g o nsuch flim sysupports, as half-understoodlines of verse a n d gossam erthread.

P O E T RY T H I S Y E A Rby LESLIE PHILLIPS.

Poems of this War, edited by Patr ic iaL e d w a r d a n d ColinStrang, Cam bridge,5/-.

Poetry in War Time, edited by T am bim uttu ,Faber, 6/- .Lyra, edited by Alex C o m f o r t a n dRobert Greacen, Grey

W allsPress, 5/- .Invitation and Warning, by Henry Treece ,Faber, 6/-.The Van Pool, by Keidr ichRhys, Routledge,2/6.Soldiers, This Solitude,by A la n R o o k,Routledge,2/6.The Iron Laurel, by Sidney Keyes,Routledge,2/6.Wounded Thammuz,by J o h n Heath-Stubbs,Routledge,2/6.The New Poets, Alex Co m fo rt, R o y M c F a d d e n , lan

Serraillier,Grey W allsPress, 2/6.Questions for Waiting, by W rey Gardiner, Fortune, 6/- .^

The above books, though by n o m e a n srepresentingall thepoetry publishedduring the year, do include s o m e o f thenotablepoetry written.

Poems of this War is neatly arrangedin seven sections,andfor this reason has a cohes iona n d structure which Poetry inWar Time lacks. M uc h m o r eso, too , does this book readlikea col lect iono f true war poem s,a n d altho ugh in dividualp o e m s


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m a y n o t be as g o o d as those in Poetry in War Time, p o e m forpoem, there is an integrityo f purpose that runs through the

whole book. Edmund Blunden in his In t roduc t iondrawsin evitable parallels, tho ughwith reserve as he is a t painsto po in t out, between the Soldier Poets o f the last war a n dthe poets represented inthis anthology who belong to theyoungestgenera t ionof writersa n d m a n y o f whose names areunknown . In their work he finds n o " m ili tari smo r personalc l a im o r study of.revenge." T h e them e that does flow

through the book , that recurs in p o e m after poem, a n d finallyprovides aheadingfor the last sec t iono f the anthologyis tobe found in the title of Clive Sansom ' sp o e m " In the Midsto f Dea th is Life."

Most of the pieces inMr. T am bim uttu 'sbook a rereprintedf r o m the eclecticmagaz inePoetry, a n d anyone who knowsthat magaz inem ust realise that this anthologym ust co n tain

s o m e noteworthyverse. A n d , indeed, i t does, but perhapsthe very fact that i t is largely a rehash m akes the anthologyappear to lack freshness.

W h e n we c o m e to considerLyra we are o n the brink of adiscussionon poet ica lideologies. It is rather am using,however, to see the editors disagreeingwith the writer o f thepreface, Herbert Read, as to what the anthologypurports to

be. HerbertRead, c h a m p i o no f the New R o m a n ti c s,sees thepoet ic f ront represented in this b o o k as reconstructivea n d"poetically pac i fi st," the co m m o ntendencyo f all the poetsbeing that they " know with prophetic insight the l ivingfuture." O n the other hand , the editorsdeny that the poetrythey have chosen consti tutesany specific school, a n d affirmthat their selection has been arbitrary and , a t the m o st, areflectiono f their taste. It is evident, therefore, that if theanthologywhic h em erges exhibitsr o m a n t i ctendencies,thena goo d dea lhas been said about the predilectionso f its editors,both o f w h o m are poets them selves,and abou tm o d e r npoetryin general. Like the editorso f Poems of this War their o n ecri ter ion,save that o f personal preference, has beenthat thepoets representedshould be of the young generation. Thesenew poetshave still fewer conven t ions t orestrict them thanhad their counterpartso f the " 'thirties,"a n d they are applying


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this f reedom ina strikingm a n n e rin this t ime o f war to thediscovery ofthe individual.

Henry Treeceis perhaps the m o st considerableof theseyoungerpoets, a n d his Invitation and Warning helps to establish h i m as such. His poetry is the very essence ofapoc alypticism ,a n d the influenceo f surrealism is apparent inthe startlinglyevocativeim ageryhe uses. But Mr. Treece isn o au to m aticpoet; he uses surrealismas a m e a n s to an end*a n d so rem ainsa consciouslycreative artist. His ballad-like

" Mystic N um bers" r e m i n d one o fH o u s m a n ,but have m o revariety info rm a n d conten tthan H o u s m a n ' spoetry, a n d givean even greater sense o f d o o m a n d tragedy. Here,as- in allthe poems that fo llo w, im agesof agonya n d desire and deathconvey a feelingo f the transitorynature o f life. W e m a yperhaps forgiveMr. Treece forhis occas ional verbalexaggerat ion, for in t imeso f changea bold a n d excit inguse of wordsis d e m a n d e dof the poet. In the autobiographicalsequences," T h e Never E n d i n g Rosary" a n d " Towards a PersonalA r m a g e d d o n" the poet seem s obsessedby the ideao f despaira n d death, and althoughhis poetry is intensely personal i treads like the cryo f all m a n ki n d . T h e whole o f tim e runsthrough Mr. Treece's poetry:

O hands, O heart, howmany

centuriesMust we be stifled in this, stony grave?How many bloody minutes roll acrossThe land, before the love we bear is born?

reinforcingits texture a n d c o m b i n i n gorganicallywith his otherthem es.

T he fo urRoutledgebookscontras tinterestingly,a n d save forhaving beenpublishedunder the sign o f the o n e publishertheyhave very little in c o m m o na n d show wide differencesin stylea n d subjectm atter. Thus when we read Keidr ichRhys we arein a world of newspapers or the "PictureP o st." A lanRookgives us a picture o f philosophy,a n d hope in battle; SidneyKeyes one o f b looda n d i r o na n d fire; a n d John Heath-Stubbsconjures upa visiono f incensea n d strangerites in the forest.

Keidr ichRhys is a co n glo m era tepoet who c o m b i n e sthediscoveriesa n d techniqueso f Jam esJoyce,D y l a n T h o m a s a n dE. E . Cummingsin poetry o f Unaba tedtopicality. True, he is


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a soldier poet, a n d his barrack- roo mim agerya n d newspaperreferencesgive a very real pictureof the soldierallsoldiers,

that is, a n d n o tm erely thepoetseparatedf r o m h o m e a n dhoping for days of peace. But his love poems are oftenexhibit ionist ,a n d m a n y o f his subjects do n o t really lendthem selves to poet ic treatm en t. For exam ple, his p o e m* General Martel" m a y express a very fine sen tim ent ,but toread hero-worshiplike this i n a poem makesone feel ratherunc o m fo r table ,for this is the kind o f thing we c a n f ind d o n e

m u c h m o r e effectivelyin the ord inarynewspapereulogy.A l a n Rook, too , is a soldier poet. But he is m o r e than

m erely topical , for his work shows evidence o f a deep a n dm o r e universal feeling. O n e hesitates to use the word" em o tion a l,"but there is undeniably anem o tion al quali tyinhis po em s. This is, perhaps, m o re n o ticeablein the firstsect ion o f his book , which we m a y take it is arrangedchronological ly.In this first section,"Oxford,"the poems areferventhymns to beauty conce ivedin the poet's ardour. T h e nin " T h e CloudsD a r k e n" the realityo f life showsthrough thefacade o f beauty, until in "War" the poet finds him self asoldier. This , o f course, is noth ing new, and has been thecareer o f so m a n y poets to-day. But in the mids t of war hisearly feeling for beauty andw i s d o mhas no t left him ,a n d hiswar poetry is n o t poetry o f despair but o f hope

/ see. I accept. In these three, in love, the longdream of beauty to be held or treasuredand the wise relevantfulfilment of the individual promiseis freedom.

Sidney Keyesis som eth ingof a Je rem iaha m o n gpoets, a n dhis poetry is full o f portents o f d o o m . His im agery is hardand unfl inching,a n d is as a in this t ime ofblood a n d i r onas a tank o r a b o m b . His poetry is m o v i n ga n d memorab le ,a n d has the dis t inc t ionof being excit ingwithout the author 'shaving to resort to poet ictricks. Mr. Keyes has a taste forhistory,a n d he handlesa n d develops histhem eswell in poemso n Schiller, Gillesde Retz , andJ o h n Clare, while his longfinal p o e m is a story ofsoldiers in this a n d every age killedand tram pledin to the soil


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AUTHENTIC N O T E S A N DD I S C U S S I O N S ,by Krishna-murti. ( S TA RPUBL. A G E N C Y.2s. 6 c L ) .

I read it at m y table a n d also in the

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Kingdom Come vol 3 no 11

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