This
is Coleridge, as braggadocious and approximately factual as ever, in a Nov. 19,
1796, letter to John Thelwall. With comparable justice, the words apply to the English
critic F.L. Lucas, another library-cormorant, who wrote that Coleridge was “as
clever a man as Johnson” (Style,
1955), but goes on to describe a passage in a letter from the poet-critic to Byron
as “fulsome twaddle.” Dave Lull has sent me a copy of a tribute to Lucas
written by the American philosopher Brand Blanshard (go here and here for more
on Blanshard) and published in the Yale
Review in 1968. Lucas had died the previous year, on June 1 (the day The
Beatles released Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely
Hearts Club Band – how’s that for a symbolic changing of the guard?), and
Blanshard says: “It was a bad day for all who love good criticism and good
writing.” After noting that Eliot, Leavis and Edmund Wilson were better known,
Blanshard observes that Lucas had “three gifts in a more balanced abundance
than any of them”: learning, “the practical sense and the down-to-earth
judgment of the man of the world” and style. Blanshard writes of the critic:
“He
must have had a Macaulayan memory. Sometimes, like that human torrent, he can
hardly get on with his argument because of the mass of historic analogies that
come flooding to his aid.”
And
yet the ship seldom risks capsizing under the burden of all that cargo. (Can
one be said to ferry a burden gracefully, even elegantly? Lucas does.) Take
page 58, the one following the Coleridge reference cited above, in Style (3rd ed., Cassell &
Co. Ltd., April 1956). First, the conclusion of a sentence from the previous
page, featuring Coleridge on Byron, with a footnote to STC’s marginalia in his
edition of Pepys, referring to Wordsworth, Byron and Scott. Then a Dickens
reference (“Heep and Pecksniff.”), followed by a brief and amusing return to
Johnson: “A good deal of difference between these two Samuels. No need to dwell
on it -- `look and pass.’” This too is footnoted, to a letter from Leconte de
Lisle to Napoleon III, quoted in French. The two footnotes take up two-thirds
of the page. Before we reach page 59, there is mention in passing of Virgil,
Horace, Catullus and Ovid. It may be difficult to believe, but none of this
comes off pedantically. It’s more like the enthusiastic conversation of a
book-besotted man who very much wants you to read and enjoy what he has read
and enjoyed. To understand the interdependence of books and life in Lucas’
sensibility, listen to Blanshard:
“Life
for him was a high adventure that had to be crowded into too short a time; our
business was to live it well; and for literature that does not help us to do
that, he had no patience. He knew – none better – that good writing had been
done by spotted characters, by Villon, Rousseau, Byron, Baudelaire; but he
detested rottenness wherever he found it, and all the more because it was
contagious. He liked his authors healthy of mind. He preferred Montaigne to
Bacon, Hardy to Wilde and Shaw, because of their greater honesty, Tennyson and
Arnold to Browning and Meredith because as personalities they were more sensitive
and self-controlled. That meant that he had small sympathy with much in contemporary
literature, indeed with the whole vast volume of it that wallows in the morbid
and the abnormal.”
What
could be less fashionable than the title Lucas gives the second chapter of Style?: “The Foundation of Style –
Character.” He goes on to list the “human qualities” valued by people across
the centuries, those “especially valued, whether consciously or not, in writers
or speakers”: “I mean such things as good manners and courtesy toward readers,
like Goldsmith’s; good humour and gaiety, like Sterne’s; good health and vitality,
like Macaulay’s; good sense and sincerity, like Johnson’s.”
For
Lucas, the most important of these qualities is courtesy. As Blanshard points
out, it is the “root of clarity,” and he quotes Lucas to that effect: “it is
usually the pretentious and egoistic who are obscure.” That says all we need to
know about most of today’s academic writing, particularly that undertaken in
our Departments of English. Aesthetic questions, it seems, are not merely
aesthetic. They also are moral. Blanshard lays on the irony, one of Lucas’
favorite tools:
“Throughout
a period when Cambridge colleagues were exalting D.H. Lawrence, and the best-educated
nation in Europe were trooping like `silly sheep’ after Hitler, and Frenchmen
were making a hero of Sartre, and Sartre was making a saint out of Genet, and
Americans were trying to galvanize Kierkegaard into life again, Lucas gave a
steady testimony for the classic and the rational. His admiration was for minds
like Hume and Franklin—reflective, self-controlled, kindly, sensible, and gay.”
The
reference to Hitler makes this worth noting in Blanshard’s tribute: Lucas, born
in 1894, served his country in both world wars:
“Laying
aside his books at twenty, he went to France, was wounded in 1916, gassed in
1917, mentioned in despatches, and endowed with `a year and a half in
hospitals, a deaf ear and a damaged lung.’ `Twenty years of books; then on
3-9-39 a naval uniform knocked at my gate and asked how long I needed to pack,
and so began another bookless interval—six years this time.’ He was given hard
work in the Foreign Office, buckled down to it in soldierly fashion, and came
to like it. `Books with a purpose may often suffer; but life crammed with
purpose is surely the best.’”
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