CHAPTER XXVI
From Philip Quarles's
Notebook
Found Rampion gloomy and exasperated, I
don't know what about, and consequently pessimistic -lyrically and violently
so. 'I give the present dispensation ten
years,' he said, after cataloguing the horrors of the modern world. 'After that the most appalling and sanguinary
bust-up there's ever been.' And he
prophesied class wars, wars between the continents, the final catastrophic
crumbling of our already dreadfully unsteady society. 'Not a pleasant look-out for our children,' I
said. 'We've at least had our thirty years
or so. They'll only grow up to see the
Last Judgement.' 'We oughtn't to have
brought them into the world,' he answered.
I mentioned those Melanesians that Rivers wrote about,
who simply refused to breed any more after the white people had robbed them of
their religion and their traditional civilization. 'The same thing's been happening in the
West,' I said, 'but more slowly. No
sudden race suicide, but gradual diminution of births. Gradual, because with us
the poison of modern civilization had infected men so slowly. The thing has been going on for a long time;
but we're only just beginning to realize that we're being poisoned. That's why we've only just begun to stop
begetting children. The Melanesians had
their souls suddenly murdered, so they couldn't help realizing what was being
done to them. That's why they decided,
almost from one day to another, that they wouldn't bother to keep the race
alive any longer.' 'The poison isn't
slow any more. It works faster and
faster.' 'Like arsenic - the effects are
cumulative. After a certain moment you
begin to gallop towards death.'
'Breeding would have slowed down much more completely if people had
realized. Well, well; our brats will
have to look out for themselves now they're here.' 'And meanwhile,' I said, 'one's got to go on
behaving as if our world were going on for ever - teaching them good manners
and Latin grammar and all the rest. What
do you do about yours?' 'If I could have
my way, I wouldn't teach them anything.
Just turn them loose in the country, on a farm, and tell them to amuse
themselves. And if they couldn't amuse
themselves, I'd give them rat poison.'
'Rather Utopian as an educational programme, isn't it?' 'I know.
They've got to be scholars and gentlemen, damn them! Twenty years ago I'd have objected to the
gentility. I'd have brought them up as
peasants. But the working classes are
just as bad as the others nowadays. Just rather bad imitations of the bourgeoisie, a little worse than
the original in some ways. So it's
as gentlemen my boys are being brought up after all. And scholars. What an imbecility!' He complained to me that both his children
have a passion for machinery - motorcars, trains, aeroplanes, radios. 'It's an infection, like smallpox. The love of death's in the air. They breathe it and get infected. I try to persuade them to like something
else. But they won't have it. Machinery's the only thing for them. They're infected with the love of death. It's as though the young were absolutely
determined to bring the world to an end - mechanize it first into madness, then
into sheer murder. Well, let them if
they want to, the stupid little devils!
But it's humiliating, it's horribly humiliating
that human beings should have made such a devilish mess of things. Life could have been so beautiful, if they'd
cared to make it so. Yes, and it was
beautiful once, I believe. Now it's just
an insanity; it's just death violently galvanized, twitching
about and making a hellish hullabaloo to persuade itself that it isn't really
death, but the most exuberant sort of life.
Think of
*
* * *
Since reading Alverdes and Wheeler I have quite decided that my novelist
must be an amateur zoologist. Or, better
still, a professional zoologist who is writing a novel in his spare time. His approach will be strictly
biological. He will be constantly
passing from the termitary to the drawing-room and
the factory, and back again. He will
illustrate human vices by those of the ants, which neglect their young for the
sake of the intoxicating liquor exuded by the parasites that invade their
nests. His hero and heroine will spend
their honeymoon by a lake, where the grebes and ducks illustrate all the
aspects of courtship and matrimony.
Observing the habitual and almost sacred 'pecking order' which prevails
among the hens in his poultry yard - hen A pecking hen B, but not being pecked
by it, hen B pecking hen C and so forth - the politician will meditate on the
Catholic hierarchy and Fascism. The mass
of intricately copulating snakes will remind the libertine of his orgies. (I can visualize quite a good scene with a
kind of Spandrell drawing the moral, to an innocent
and idealistic young woman, of a serpents' petting party.) Nationalism and the middle classes' religious
love of property will be illustrated by the male warbler’s passionate and
ferocious defence of his chosen territory.
And so on. Something queer and
quite amusing could be made out of this.
*
* * *
One of the hardest
things to remember is that man's merit in one sphere is no guarantee of his
merit in another.
The course of every
intellectual, if he pursues his journey long and unflinchingly enough, ends in the obvious, from which the
non-intellectuals have never stirred.
The theme was developed by Burlap in one of those squelchy
emetic articles of his. And there's a
good deal of truth in it, in spite of Burlap.
(Here we are, back again among the personalities. The thoroughly contemptible man may have
valuable opinions. And I suppose, paranthetically,
that I belong to the first class - though not so completely, I hope, as
Burlap and in a different way.) Many
intellectuals, of course, don't get far enough to reach the obvious again. They remain stuck in a pathetic belief in
rationalism and the absolute supremacy of mental values and the entirely
conscious will. You've got to go further
than the nineteenth-century fellows, for example; as far at least as Protagoras and Pyrrho, before you
get back to the obvious in which the non-intellectuals have always
remained. And one must hasten to make it
clear that these non-intellectuals aren't the modern canaille who read the
picture papers and listen-in and jazz and are preoccupied with making money and
having the awful modern 'good time'. No,
no; one isn't paying a compliment to the hard-headed business man or the
lowbrow. For, in spite of their stupidity
and tastelessness and vulgarity and infantility (or
rather because of all these defects), they aren't the non-intellectuals I'm
talking about. They take the main
intellectualist axiom for granted - that there's an intrinsic superiority in
mental, conscious, voluntary life over physical, intuitive, instinctive,
emotional life. The whole of modern
civilization is based on the idea that the specialized function which gives a
man his place in society is more important than the whole man, all the rest
being irrelevant or even (since the physical, intuitive, instinctive and emotional
part of man doesn't contribute appreciably to making money or getting on in an
industrialized world) positively harmful and detestable. The lowbrow of our modern industrialized
society has all the defects of the intellectual and none of his redeeming
qualities. The non-intellectuals I'm
thinking of are very different beings.
One might still find a few of them in
Being with Rampion rather depresses me; for he makes me see what a
great gulf separates the knowledge of the obvious from the actual living of
it. And oh, the difficulties of crossing
that gulf! I perceive now that the real charm
of the intellectual life - the life devoted to erudition, to scientific
research, to philosophy, to aesthetics, to criticism - is its easiness. It's the substitution of simple intellectual
schemata for the complexities of reality; of still and formal death for the
bewildering movements of life. It's
incomparably easier to know a lot, say, about the history of art and to have
profound ideas about metaphysics and sociology, than to know personally and
intuitively a lot about one's fellows and to have satisfactory relations with
one's friends and lovers, one's wife and children. Living's much more difficult than Sanskrit or
chemistry or economics. The intellectual
life is child's play; which is why intellectuals tend to become children - and
then imbeciles and finally, as the political and industrial history of the last
few centuries clearly demonstrates, homicidal lunatics
and wild beasts. The repressed functions
don't die; they deteriorate, they fester, they revert to primitiveness. But meanwhile it's much easier to be an
intellectual child or lunatic or beast than an
harmonious adult man. That's why (among
other reasons) there's such a demand for higher education. The rush to books and universities is like
the rush to the public-house. People want
to drown their realization of the difficulties of living properly in this
grotesque contemporary world, they want to forget
their own deplorable inefficiency as artists in life. Some drown their sorrows in alcohol, but
still more drown them in books and artistic dilettantism; some try to forget
themselves in fornication, dancing, movies, listening-in, others in lectures
and scientific hobbies. The books and
lectures are better sorrow-drowners than drink and
fornication; they leave no headache, none of that despairing post-coitum trists
feeling. Till quite recently, I must
confess, I took learning and philosophy and science - all the activities that
are magniloquently lumped under the title of 'The Search for Truth' - very
seriously. I regarded the Search for
Truth as the highest of human tasks and the Searchers as the noblest of
men. But in the last year or so I have
begun to see that this famous Search for Truth is just an amusement, a
distraction like any other, a rather refined and elaborate substitute for
genuine living; and that Truth-Searchers become just as silly, infantile and
corrupt in their way as the boozers, the pure aesthetes, the business men, the
Good-Timers in theirs. I also perceived
that the pursuit of Truth is just a polite name for the intellectual's
favourite pastime of substituting simple and therefore false abstractions for
the living complexities of reality. But
seeking Truth is much easier than learning the art of integral living (in which,
of course, Truth-Seeking will take it due and proportionate place along with
the other amusements, like skittles and mountain-climbing). Which explains, though it
doesn't justify, my continued and excessive indulgence in the vices of
informative reading and abstract generalization. Shall I ever have the strength of mind to
break myself of these indolent habits of intellectualism and devote my energies
to the more serious and difficult task of living integrally? And even if I did try to break these habits,
shouldn't I find that heredity was at the bottom of them and that I was
congenitally incapable of living wholly and harmoniously?