The Forerunner Part 48

Articles about flying machines may or may not be "literature" but they are small doses of information highly desirable to persons who have not time enough, nor money enough, to read books.

If you have time, you can go to the libraries. If you have money, you can order from your dealer.

If you have only ten cents--no, fifteen, it takes in these days of prosperity--you can with that purchase a deal of valuable and interesting matter, coming on fresh every month--or week.

Sweeping aside all the "instructive" articles as hopelessly without the lofty pale of literature, we have left an overwhelming ma.s.s of fiction.

This, too, is ruthlessly condemned by the austere upholder of high standards. This, too, is not literature.

What is literature?

Literature, in the esoteric sense of lofty criticism, is a form of writing which, like the higher mathematics, must be free from any taint of utility. Pure literature must perforce be a form of expression, but must not condescend to express anything.

To write with the narrow and vulgar purpose of saying something, is to be cut off hopelessly from the elect few who produce literature. This att.i.tude of sublime superiority as an art is responsible for our general scorn of what we call,

"The Novel With a Purpose."

Have any of us fairly faced the alternative? Are we content to accept delightedly the "Novel Without a Purpose"?

Do you remember the Peterkin Papers? How Solomon John, the second son, thought he would like to write a book? How Agammemnon, the oldest son, and Elizabeth Eliza, the sister, and the Little Boys, in their beloved rubber boots, as also the parents, were all mightily impressed with the ambition of Solomon John? How a table was secured, and placed in the proper light? How a chair was brought, paper was procured, and pens and ink? How finally all was ready, and the entire family stood about in rapt admiration to see Solomon John begin?

He drew the paper before him; he selected a pen; he dipped it in the ink and poised it before him.

Then he looked from one to another, and an expression of pained surprise spread over his features.

"Why," said Solomon John, "I have nothing to say!"

(I quote from memory, not having the cla.s.sics at hand.)

There was great disappointment in the Peterkin family, and the project was given up. But why so? Solomon John need not have been so easily discouraged. He was in the exact position to produce literature--pure, high, legitimate literature--the Novel Without a Purpose.

In the effort to preserve the purity of the Pierian Springs, those guardians of this n.o.ble art, who arbitrate in the "standard magazines,"

condemn and exclude what they define as "controversial literature."

Suppose someone comes along with a story advocating euthanasia, showing with all the force of the art of fiction the slow, hideous suffering of some helpless cancer patient or the like, the blessed release that might be humanly given; showing it so as to make an indelible impression--this story is refused as "controversial," as being written with a purpose.

Yet the same magazine will print a story no better written, showing the magnificent heroism of the man who slowly dies in year-long torment, helpless himself and steady drain on everyone about him, virtuously refusing to shorten his torments--and theirs.

What is a controversy? A discussion, surely. It has two sides.

Why isn't a story upholding one side of a controversy as controversial as a story upholding the other side?

Is it only a coincidence that magazines of large circulation and established reputation so consistently maintain that side of the controversy already popularly held as right?

Time pa.s.ses. Minds develop. New knowledge comes. People's ideas and feelings change--some people's. These new ideas and feelings seek expression ion the natural forms--speech and literature, as is legitimate and right.

But the canons of taste and judgement say No.

The ideas and feelings of the peoples of past times found expression in this way, and are preserved in literature. But our ideas and feelings, so seeking expression, do not make literature.

It is not the first time that the canons were wrong. Straight down the road of historic progress, from the dim old days we can hardly see, into the increasing glare of the calcium-lighted present, there have always stood the Priesthood of the Past, making human progress into an obstacle race.

PERSONAL PROBLEMS

QUERY: "I am a woman of about forty; my children are pretty well grown up; my home does not take all my time. I could do some work in the world, but I do not know what to do. Can you advise me?"

QUERY: "I appreciate the need of women's working, and am free to do so, but cannot make up my mind what work to undertake. It is very easy for you people with 'a mission' and talents, but what is an ordinary woman to do?"

ANSWER: These two questions belong together, and may be answered together. Neither of the questioners seem to be driven by necessity, which simplifies matters a good deal.

Work has to be done for two real reasons. One is the service of humanity, of society, which cannot exist without our functional activity. Work is social service.

The other is personal development. One cannot be fully human without this functional social activity.

In choosing work, there are two governing factors always, and generally the third one of pressing necessity. Of the two, one is personal fitness--the instinctive choice of those who are highly specialized in some one line. This makes decision easy, but does not always make it easy to get the work. You may be divinely ordained to fiddle--but if no one wants to hear you, you are badly off. The other is far more general; it is the social demand--the call of the work that _needs doing._

If you are able to work, free to work, and not hampered by a rigid personal bent, just look about and see what other people need. Study your country, town, village, your environment, near or distant; and take hold of some social need, whether it is a better school board or the preservation of our forests. So long as the earth or the people on it need service, there is work for all of us.

PLAY-TIME

A WALK WALK WALK

I.

I once went out for a walk, walk, walk, For a walk beside the sea; And all I carried for to eat, eat, eat, Was a jar of ginger snaps so sweet, And a jug of ginger tea.

For I am fond of cinnamon pie, And peppermint pudding, too; And I dearly love to bake, bake, bake, A mighty ma.s.s of mustard cake, And nutmeg beer to brew.

II.

And all I carried for drink, drink, drink, That long and weary way, Was a dozen little gla.s.ses Of boiled mola.s.ses On a Cochin China tray.

For I am fond of the sugar of the grape, And the sugar of the maple tree; But I always eat The sugar of the beet When I'm in company.

III.

And all I carried for to read, read, read, For a half an hour or so, Was Milman's Rome, and Grote on Greece, And the works of Dumas, pere et fils, And the poems of Longfellow.

For I am fond of the Hunting of the Snark, And the Romaunt of the Rose; And I never go to bed Without Webster at my head And Worcester at my toes.