the rhythm of life-第9部分

快捷操作: 按键盘上方向键 ← 或 → 可快速上下翻页 按键盘上的 Enter 键可回到本书目录页 按键盘上方向键 ↑ 可回到本页顶部! 如果本书没有阅读完，想下次继续接着阅读，可使用上方 "收藏到我的浏览器" 功能 和 "加入书签" 功能！



finds　therein　a　peculiar　sanction。　　And　I　suppose　that　even　physical

pain　takes　on　an　edge　when　it　not　only　enforces　a　pang　but　whispers

a　phrase。　　Consciousness　and　the　word　are　almost　as　closely　united

as　thought　and　the　word。　　Almostnot　quite；　in　spite　of　its

inexpressive　speech；　the　narrow　house　is　aware　and　sensitive　beyond；

as　it　were；　its　poor　power。



But　as　to　the　whole　disparity　between　the　destiny　and　the　nature；　we

know　it　to　be　general。　　Life　is　great　that　is　trivially　transmitted；

love　is　great　that　is　vulgarly　experienced。　　Death；　too；　is　a　heroic

virtue；　and　to　the　keeping　of　us　all　is　death　committed：　　death；

submissive　in　the　indocile；　modest　in　the　fatuous；　several　in　the

vulgar；　secret　in　the　familiar。　　It　is　destructive　because　it　not

only　closes　but　contradicts　life。　　Unlikely　people　die。　　The　one

certain　thing；　it　is　also　the　one　improbable。　　A　dreadful　paradox　is

perhaps　wrought　upon　a　little　nature　that　is　incapable　of　death　and

yet　is　constrained　to　die。　　That　is　a　true　destruction；　and　the

thought　of　it　is　obscure。



Happy　literature　corrects　all　this　disproportion　by　its　immortal

pause。　　It　does　not　bid　us　follow　man　or　woman　to　an　illogical

conclusion。　　Mrs。　Micawber　never　does　desert　Mr。　Micawber。

Considering　her　mental　powers；　by　the　way；　an　illogical　conclusion

for　her　would　be　manifestly　inappropriate。　　Shakespeare；　indeed；

having　seen　a　life　whole；　sees　it　to　an　end：　　sees　it　out；　and

Falstaff　dies。　　More　than　Promethean　was　the　audacity　that；　having

kindled；　quenched　that　spark。　　But　otherwise　the　grotesque　man　in

literature　is　immortal；　and　with　something　more　significant　than　the

immortality　awarded　to　him　in　the　sayings　of　rhetoric；　he　is

predurable　because　he　is　not　completed。　　His　humours　are　strangely

matched　with　perpetuity。　　But；　indeed；　he　is　not　worthy　to　die；　for

there　is　something　graver　than　to　be　immortal；　and　that　is　to　be

mortal。　　I　protest　I　do　not　laugh　at　man　or　woman　in　the　world。　　I

thank　my　fellow…mortals　for　their　wit；　and　also　for　the　kind　of　joke

that　the　French　so　pleasantly　call　une　joyeusete；　these　are　to　smile

at。　　But　the　gay　injustice　of　laughter　is　between　me　and　the　book。



That　narrow　housethere　is　sometimes　a　message　from　its　living

windows。　　Its　bewilderment；　its　reluctance；　its　defect；　show　by

moments　from　eyes　that　are　apt　to　express　none　but　common　things。

There　are　allusions　unawares；　involuntary　appeals；　in　those　brief

glances。　　Far　from　me　and　from　my　friends　be　the　misfortune　of

meeting　such　looks　in　reply　to　pain　of　our　inflicting。　　To　be　clever

and　sensitive　and　to　hurt　the　foolish　and　the　stolidwouldst　thou

do　such　a　deed　for　all　the　world？　　Not　I；　by　this　heavenly　light。







REJECTION







Simplicity　is　not　virginal　in　the　modern　world。　　She　has　a

penitential　or　a　vidual　singleness。　　We　can　conceive　an　antique

world　in　which　life；　art；　and　letters　were　simple　because　of　the

absence　of　many　things；　for　us　now　they　can　be　simple　only　because

of　our　rejection　of　many　things。　　We　are　constrained　to　such　a

vigilance　as　will　not　let　even　a　master's　work　pass　unfanned　and

unpurged。　　Even　among　his　phrases　one　shall　be　taken　and　the　other

left。　　For　he　may　unawares　have　allowed　the　habitualness　that　besets

this　multitudinous　life　to　take　the　pen　from　his　hand　and　to　write

for　him　a　page　or　a　word；　and　habitualness　compels　our　refusals。　　Or

he　may　have　allowed　the　easy　impulse　of　exaggeration　to　force　a

sentence　which　the　mere　truth；　sensitively　and　powerfully　pausing；

would　well　have　become。　　Exaggeration　has　played　a　part　of　its　own

in　human　history。　　By　depreciating　our　language　it　has　stimulated

change；　and　has　kept　the　circulating　word　in　exercise。　　Our

rejection　must　be　alert　and　expert　to　overtake　exaggeration　and

arrest　it。　　It　makes　us　shrewder　than　we　wish　to　be。　　And；　indeed；

the　whole　endless　action　of　refusal　shortens　the　life　we　could

desire　to　live。　　Much　of　our　resolution　is　used　up　in　the　repeated

mental　gesture　of　adverse　decision。　　Our　tacit　and　implicit　distaste

is　made　explicit；　who　shall　say　with　what　loss　to　our　treasury　of

quietness？　　We　are　defrauded　of　our　interior　ignorance；　which　should

be　a　place　of　peace。　　We　are　forced　to　confess　more　articulately

than　befits　our　convention　with　ourselves。　　We　are　hurried　out　of

our　reluctances。　　We　are　made　too　much　aware。　　Nay；　more：　　we　are

tempted　to　the　outward　activity　of　destruction；　reviewing　becomes

almost　inevitable。　　As　for　the　spiritual　lifeO　weary；　weary　act　of

refusal！　　O　waste　but　necessary　hours；　vigil　and　wakefulness　of

fear！　　'We　live　by　admiration'　only　a　shortened　life　who　live　so

much　in　the　iteration　of　rejection　and　repulse。　　And　in　the　very

touch　of　joy　there　hides　I　know　not　what　ultimate　denial；　if　not　on

one　side；　on　the　other。　　If　joy　is　given　to　us　without　reserve；　not

so　do　we　give　ourselves　to　joy。　　We　withhold；　we　close。　　Having

denied　many　things　that　have　approached　us；　we　deny　ourselves　to

many　things。　　Thus　does　il　gran　rifiuto　divide　and　rule　our　world。



Simplicity　is　worth　the　sacrifice；　but　all　is　not　sacrifice。

Rejection　has　its　pleasures；　the　more　secret　the　more　unmeasured。

When　we　garnish　a　house　we　refuse　more　furniture；　and　furniture　more

various；　than　might　haunt　the　dreams　of　decorators。　　There　is　no

limit　to　our　rejections。　　And　the　unconsciousness　of　the　decorators

is　in　itself　a　cause　of　pleasure　to　a　mind　generous；　forbearing；　and

delicate。　　When　we　dress；　no　fancy　may　count　the　things　we　will　none

of。　　When　we　write；　what　hinders　that　we　should　refrain　from　Style

past　reckoning？　　When　we　marry。　　Moreover；　if　simplicity　is　no

longer　set　in　a　world　having　the　great　and　beautiful　quality　of

fewness；　we　can　provide　an　equally　fair　setting　in　the　quality　of

refinement。　　And　refinement　is　not　to　be　achieved　but　by　rejection。

One　who　suggests　to　me　that　refinement　is　apt　to　be　a　mere　negative

has　offered　up　a　singular　blunder　in　honour　of　robustiousness。

Refinement　is　not　negative；　because　it　must　be　compassed　by　many

negations。　　It　is　a　thing　of　price　as　well　as　of　value；　it　demands

immolations；　it　exacts　experience。　　No　slight　or　easy　charge；　then；

is　committed　to　such　of　us　as；　having　apprehension　of　these　things；

fulfil　the　office　of　exclusion。　　Never　before　was　a　time　when

derogation　was　always　so　near；　a　daily　danger；　or　when　the　reward　of

resisting　it　was　so　great。　　The　simplicity　of　literature；　more

sensitive；　more　threatened；　and　more　important　than　other

simplicities；　needs　a　guard　of　honour；　who　shall　never　relax　the

good　will　nor　lose　the　good　heart　of　their　intolerance。







THE　LESSON　OF　LANDSCAPE







The　landscape；　like　our　literature；　is　apt　to　grow　and　to　get　itself

formed　under　too　luxurious　ideals。　　This　is　the　evil　work　of　that

LITTLE　MORE　which　makes　its　insensible　but　persistent　additions　to

styles；　to　the　arts；　to　the　ornaments　of　lifeto　nature；　when

unluckily　man　becomes　too　explicitly　conscious　of　her　beauty；　and

too　deliberate　in　his　arrangement　of　it。　　The　landscape　has　need　of

moderation；　of　that　fast…disappearing　grace　of　unconsciousness；　and；

in　short；　of　a　return　towards　the　ascetic　temper。　　The　English　way

of　landowning；　above　all；　has　made　for　luxury。　　Naturally　the

country　is　fat。　　The　trees　are　thick　and　rounda　world　of　leaves；

the　hills　are　round；　the　forms　are　all　blunt；　and　the　grass　is　so

deep　as　to　have　almost　the　effect　of　snow　in　smoothing　off　all

points　and　curving　away　all　abruptness。　　England　is　almost　as　blunt

as　a　machine…made　moulding　or　a　piece　of　Early…Victorian　cast…iron

work。　　And　on　all　this　we　have；　of　set　purpose；　improved　by　our

invention　of　the　country　park。　　There　all　is　curves　and　masses。　　A

little　more　is　added　to　the　greenness　and　the　softness　of　the　forest

glade；　and　for　increase　of　ornament　the　fat　land　is　devoted　to

idleness。　　Not　a　tree　that　is　not　impenetrable；　inarticulate。　　Thick

soil　below　and　thick　growth　above　cover　up　all　the　bones　of　the

land；　which　in　more　delicate　countries　show　brows　and　hollows

resembling　those　of　a　fine　face　after　mental　experience。　　By　a　very

intelligible　paradox；　it　is　only　in　a　landscape　made　up　for　beauty

that　beauty　is　so　ill　achieved。　　Much　beauty　there　must　needs　be

where　there　are　vegetation　and　the　seasons。　　But　even　the　seasons；

in　park　scenery；　are　marred　by　the　LITTLE　TOO　MUCH；　　too　complete　a

winter；　too　emphatic　a　spring；　an　ostentatious　summer；　an　autumn　too

demonstrative。



'Seek　to　have　less　rather　than　more。'　　It　is　a　counsel　of　perfection

in　The　Imitation　of　Christ。　　And　here；　undoubtedly；　is　the　secret　of

all　that　is　virile　and　classic　in　the　art　of　man；　and　of　all　in

nature　that　is　most　harmonious　with　that　art。　　Moreover；　this　is　the

secret　of　Italy。　　How　little　do　the　tourists　and　the　poets　grasp

this　latter　truth；　by　the　wayand　the　artists！　　The　legend　of　Italy

is　to　be　gorgeous；　and　they　have　her　legend　by　rote。　　But　Italy　is

slim　and　all　articulate；　her　most　characteristic　trees　are　those

that　are　distinct　and　distinguished；　with　lines　that　suggest　the

etching…point　rather　than　a　brush　loaded　with　paint。　　Cypresses

shaped　like　flames；　tall　pines　with　the　abrupt　flatness　of　their

tops；　thin　canes　in　the　brakes；　sharp　aloes　by　the　road…side；　and

olives　with　the　delicate　acuteness　of　the　leafthese　make　keen

lines　of　slender　vegetation。　　And　they　own　the　seasons　by　a　gentle

confession。　　Rather　than　be　overpowered　by　the　clamorous

proclamation　of　summer　in　the　English　woods；　we　would　follow　June　to

this　subtler　South：　　even　to　the　Campagna；　where　the　cycle　of　the

seasons　passes　within　such　narrow　limitations　that　insensitive　eyes

scarcely　recognise　it。　　In　early　spring　there　is　a　fresher　touch　of

green　on　all　the　spaces　of　grass；　the　distance　grows　less　mellow　and

more　radiant；　by　the　coming　of　May　the　green　has　been　imperceptibly

dimmed　again；　it　blushes　with