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W.H. Auden
My own small selection from a delightful selection by WH Auden:
FOREWORD
Biographies of writers, whether written
by others or themselves, are always superfluous and usually in bad taste. A
writer is a maker, not a man of action. To be sure, some, in a sense all, of his
works are transmutations of his personal experiences, but no knowledge of the
raw ingredients will explain the peculiar flavor of the verbal dishes he invites
the public to taste: his private life is, or should be, of no concern to anybody
except himself, his family and his friends. I realize, however, that this
compilation is a sort of autobiography. As Chesterton wrote: There is at the back of every artist's mind something like a pattern or a
type of architecture.
The original quality in any man of imagination is
imagery. It is a thing like the landscape of his dreams; the sort of
world he would like to make or in
which he would wish to wander; the strange flora and fauna of his own secret planet; the sort of thing he likes to
think about. This general atmosphere, and pattern or structure of growth, governs all his creations, however varied. Here, then, is a map of my planet.
Certain features are, deliberately or necessarily, missing. There are, for
example, hardly any references to music, which is very important to me. Aside
from purely technical analysis, nothing can be said about music, except when it
is bad; when it is good, one can only listen and be grateful. Then, much as we should all like to,
none of us can preserve our personal planet as an unsullied Eden. According to
our time and place, unpleasant facts from the world we all have in common keep
intruding , matters about which either we are compelled, against our will, to
think or we feel it our duty to think, though in such matters, nobody can tell
another what his duty is. The bulk of this book will, I hope, make pleasant
reading, but there are some entries which will, I trust, disturb a reader as
much as they disturb me. I have tried to keep my own reflections
(the unsigned entries) to a minimum, and let others, more learned, intelligent,
imaginative, and witty than I, speak for me. W. H. A. In every man there lies hidden a
child between five and eight years old, the age at which naïveté comes to
an end. It is this child whom one must detect in that intimidating man with
his long beard, bristling eyebrows, heavy moustache, and weighty look—a
captain. Even he conceals, and not at all deep down, the youngster, the
booby, the little rascal, out of whom age has made this powerful monster.
PAUL
VALERY Brittle Galaxy. By
Barbara Snorte. A colorful and courageous attempt to put the
point of view of the artist misunderstood in a world of wars and rumors of wars.
Dalton Sparleigh is the eternal figure of the hero who is the center of his
world, and regards his own personality as the most important thing in life.
1,578 pages of undiluted enthrallment. Groaning Carcase.
By Frederick Duddle. A very delicate and tactfully written plea for
old horses, against a background of country-house life. It is fiction made more
compelling than fact by one who seems to be right inside the horse's mind.
Splendid Sorrow.
By Walter Fallow. Was Ernst Hörenwurst,
adventurer and rake, the Margrave Friedrich Meiningen of
Hohefurstenau-Lebensbletter? Mr. Fallow, in his new historical romance, has no
hesitation in leaving the question unanswered. Tricks -with Cheese.
By "Cheesophile" (of Cheese World). The author appears to be able to make everything,
from a model of the Palace of Justice in Brussels to a bust of his aunt, out of
cheese. A good book for the fireside. Fain Had I Thus Loved.
By Freda Trowte. Miss Trowte has been called by the Outcry
the Anatole France of Herefordshire. There is an indescribable quality of
something evocative yet elusively incomprehensible about her work. The character
of Nydda is burningly etched by as corrosive a pen as is now being wielded
anywhere. No Second Churning.
By Arthur Clawes. An almost unbearably vital study of a
gas-inspector who puts gas-inspecting before love. Awarded the Prix de Seattle,
this book should enhance the author's growing reputation as an interpreter of
life's passionate bypaths. Pursuant To What Shame.
By Goola Drain. All those who enjoyed Miss Drain's romantic
handling of a love-story in Better Thine Endeavor and Immediate Beasts will
welcome this trenchant tale of an irresponsible girl who poisons her uncle. A
famous tennis player said, before he had even seen the book, "In my opinion
Miss Drain is unique and unchallengeable. Her command of words is a
delight." J. B. MORTON If language had been the creation, not of poetry, but of logic, we should only have one. HEBBEL Logic is the art of going wrong with confidence. Anon. Sufficient unto the day is the rigor thereof. E . H . MOORE Man is the only animal that laughs and weeps; for he is the only animal that is struck by the difference between what things are and what they might have been. WILLIAM HAZLITT PARRY IDRIS Terug na/Back to
Sanity is perhaps the ability to punctuate.