As a professional critic of life and letters, my principal business in
the world is that of manufacturing platitudes for tomorrow, which is to
say, ideas so novel that they will be instantly rejected as insane and
outrageous by all right thinking men, and so apposite and sound that
they will eventually conquer that instinctive opposition, and force
themselves into the traditional wisdom of the race. I hope I need not
confess that a large part of my stock in trade consists of platitudes
rescued from the cobwebbed shelves of yesterday, with new labels stuck
rakishly upon them. This borrowing and refurbishing of shop-worn goods,
as a matter of fact, is the invariable habit of traders in ideas, at
all times and everywhere. It is not, however, that all the conceivable
human notions have been thought out; it is simply, to be quite honest,
that the sort of men who volunteer to think out new ones seldom, if
ever, have wind enough for a full day’s work. The most they can ever
accomplish in the way of genuine originality is an occasional brilliant
spurt, and half a dozen such spurts, particularly if they come close
together and show a certain co-ordination, are enough to make a
practitioner celebrated, and even immortal. Nature, indeed, conspires
against all such genuine originality, and I have no doubt that God is
against it on His heavenly throne, as His vicars and partisans
unquestionably are on this earth. The dead hand pushes all of us into
intellectual cages; there is in all of us a strange tendency to yield
and have done. Thus the impertinent colleague of Aristotle is doubly
beset, first by a public opinion that regards his enterprise as
subversive and in bad taste, and secondly by an inner weakness that
limits his capacity for it, and especially his capacity to throw off
the prejudices and superstitions of his race, culture anytime. The
cell, said Haeckel, does not act, it reacts—and what is the instrument
of reflection and speculation save a congeries of cells? At the moment
of the contemporary metaphysician’s loftiest flight, when he is most
gratefully warmed by the feeling that he is far above all the ordinary
airlanes and has absolutely novel concept by the tail, he is suddenly
pulled up by the discovery that what is entertaining him is simply the
ghost of some ancient idea that his school-master forced into him in
1887, or the mouldering corpse of a doctrine that was made official in
his country during the late war, or a sort of fermentation-product, to
mix the figure, of a banal heresy launched upon him recently by his
wife. This is the penalty that the man of intellectual curiosity and
vanity pays for his violation of the divine edict that what has been
revealed from Sinai shall suffice for him, and for his resistance to
the natural process which seeks to reduce him to the respectable level
of a patriot and taxpayer.
I was, of course, privy to this difficulty when I planned the present
work, and entered upon it with no expectation that I should be able to
embellish it with, almost, more than a very small number of hitherto
unutilized notions. Moreover, I faced the additional handicap of having
an audience of extraordinary antipathy to ideas before me, for I wrote
it in war-time, with all foreign markets cut off, and so my only
possible customers were Americans. Of their unprecedented dislike for
novelty in the domain of the intellect I have often discoursed in the
past, and so there is no need to go into the matter again. All I need
do here is to recall the fact that, in the United States, alone among
the great nations of history, there is a right way to think and a wrong
way to think in everything—not only in theology, or politics, or
economics, but in the most trivial matters of everyday life. Thus, in
the average American city the citizen who, in the face of an organized
public clamour (usually managed by interested parties) for the erection
of an equestrian statue of Susan B. Anthony, the apostle of woman
suffrage, in front of the chief railway station, or the purchase of a
dozen leopards for the municipal zoo, or the dispatch of an invitation
to the Structural Iron Workers’ Union to hold its next annual
convention in the town Symphony Hall—the citizen who, for any logical
reason, opposes such a proposal—on the ground, say, that Miss Anthony
never mounted a horse in her life, or that a dozen leopards would be
less useful than a gallows to hang the City Council, or that the
Structural Iron Workers would spit all over the floor of Symphony Hall
and knock down the busts of Bach, Beethoven and Brahms—this citizen is
commonly denounced as an anarchist and a public enemy. It is not only
erroneous to think thus; it has come to be immoral. And many other
planes, high and low. For an American to question any of the articles
of fundamental faith cherished by the majority is for him to run grave
risks of social disaster. The old English offence of “imagining the
King’s death” has been formally revived by the American courts, and
hundreds of men and women are in jail for committing it, and it has
been so enormously extended that, in some parts of the country at
least, it now embraces such remote acts as believing that the negroes
should have equality before the law, and speaking the language of
countries recently at war with the Republic, and conveying to a private
friend a formula for making synthetic gin. All such toyings with
illicit ideas are construed as attentats against democracy, which, in a
sense, perhaps they are. For democracy is grounded upon so childish a
complex of fallacies that they must be protected by a rigid system of
taboos, else even half-wits would argue it to pieces. Its first concern
must thus be to penalize the free play of ideas. In the United States
this is not only its first concern, but also its last concern. No other
enterprise, not even the trade in public offices and contracts,
occupies the rulers of the land so steadily, or makes heavier demands
upon their ingenuity and their patriotic passion.
Familiar with the risks flowing out of it—and having just had to change
the plates of my “Book of Prefaces,” a book of purely literary
criticism, wholly without political purpose or significance, in order
to get it through the mails, I determined to make this brochure upon
the woman question extremely pianissimo in tone, and to avoid burdening
it with any ideas of an unfamiliar, and hence illegal nature. So
deciding, I presently added a bravura touch: the unquenchable vanity of
the intellectual snob asserting itself over all prudence. That is to
say, I laid down the rule that no idea should go into the book that was
not already so obvious that it had been embodied in the proverbial
philosophy, or folk-wisdom, of some civilized nation, including the
Chinese. To this rule I remained faithful throughout. In its original
form, as published in 1918, the book was actually just such a pastiche
of proverbs, many of them English, and hence familiar even to
Congressmen, newspaper editors and other such illiterates. It was not
always easy to hold to this program; over and over again I was tempted
to insert notions that seemed to have escaped the peasants of Europe
and Asia. But in the end, at some cost to the form of the work, I
managed to get through it without compromise, and so it was put into
type. There is no need to add that my ideational abstinence went
unrecognized and unrewarded. In fact, not a single American reviewer
noticed it, and most of them slated the book violently as a mass of
heresies and contumacies, a deliberate attack upon all the known and
revered truths about the woman question, a headlong assault upon the
national decencies. In the South, where the suspicion of ideas goes to
extraordinary lengths, even for the United States, some of the
newspapers actually denounced the book as German propaganda, designed
to break down American morale, and called upon the Department of
Justice to proceed against me for the crime known to American law as
“criminal anarchy,” i.e., “imagining the King’s death.” Why the
Comstocks did not forbid it the mails as lewd and lascivious I have
never been able to determine. Certainly, they received many complaints
about it. I myself, in fact, caused a number of these complaints to be
lodged, in the hope that the resultant buffooneries would give me
entertainment in those dull days of war, with all intellectual
activities adjourned, and maybe promote the sale of the book. But the
Comstocks were pursuing larger fish, and so left me to the righteous
indignation of right-thinking reviewers, especially the suffragists.
Their concern, after all, is not with books that are denounced; what
they concentrate their moral passion on is the book that is praised.
The present edition is addressed to a wider audience, in more civilized
countries, and so I have felt free to introduce a number of
propositions, not to be found in popular proverbs, that had to be
omitted from the original edition. But even so, the book by no means
pretends to preach revolutionary doctrines, or even doctrines of any
novelty. All I design by it is to set down in more or less plain form
certain ideas that practically every civilized man and woman holds in
petto, but that have been concealed hitherto by the vast mass of
sentimentalities swathing the whole woman question. It is a question of
capital importance to all human beings, and it deserves to be discussed
honestly and frankly, but there is so much of social reticence, of
religious superstition and of mere emotion intermingled with it that
most of the enormous literature it has thrown off is hollow and
useless. I point for example, to the literature of the subsidiary
question of woman suffrage. It fills whole libraries, but nine tenths
of it is merely rubbish, for it starts off from assumptions that are
obviously untrue and it reaches conclusions that are at war with both
logic and the facts. So with the question of sex specifically. I have
read, literally, hundreds of volumes upon it, and uncountable numbers
of pamphlets, handbills and inflammatory wall-cards, and yet it leaves
the primary problem unsolved, which is to say, the problem as to what
is to be done about the conflict between the celibacy enforced upon
millions by civilization and the appetites implanted in all by God. In
the main, it counsels yielding to celibacy, which is exactly as
sensible as advising a dog to forget its fleas. Here, as in other
fields, I do not presume to offer a remedy of my own. In truth, I am
very suspicious of all remedies for the major ills of life, and believe
that most of them are incurable. But I at least venture to discuss the
matter realistically, and if what I have to say is not sagacious, it is
at all events not evasive. This, I hope, is something. Maybe some later
investigator will bring a better illumination to the subject.
It is the custom of The Free-Lance Series to print a paragraph or two
about the author in each volume. I was born in Baltimore, September 12,
1880, and come of a learned family, though my immediate forebears were
business men. The tradition of this ancient learning has been upon me
since my earliest days, and I narrowly escaped becoming a doctor of
philosophy. My father’s death, in 1899, somehow dropped me into
journalism, where I had a successful career, as such careers go. At the
age of 25 I was the chief editor of a daily newspaper in Baltimore.
During the same year I published my first book of criticism.
Thereafter, for ten or twelve years, I moved steadily from practical
journalism, with its dabbles in politics, economics and soon, toward
purely aesthetic concerns, chiefly literature and music, but of late I
have felt a strong pull in the other direction, and what interests me
chiefly today is what may be called public psychology, ie., the nature
of the ideas that the larger masses of men hold, and the processes
whereby they reach them. If I do any serious writing hereafter, it will
be in that field. In the United States I am commonly held suspect as a
foreigner, and during the war I was variously denounced. Abroad,
especially in England, I am sometimes put to the torture for my
intolerable Americanism. The two views are less far apart than they
seem to be. The fact is that I am superficially so American, in ways of
speech and thought, that the foreigner is deceived, whereas the native,
more familiar with the true signs, sees that under the surface there is
incurable antagonism to most of the ideas that Americans hold to be
sound. Thus I fall between two stools—but it is more comfortable there
on the floor than sitting up tightly. I am wholly devoid of public
spirit or moral purpose. This is incomprehensible to many men, and they
seek to remedy the defect by crediting me with purposes of their own.
The only thing I respect is intellectual honesty, of which, of course,
intellectual courage is a necessary part. A Socialist who goes to jail
for his opinions seems to me a much finer man than the judge who sends
him there, though I disagree with all the ideas of the Socialist and
agree with some of those of the judge. But though he is fine, the
Socialist is nevertheless foolish, for he suffers for what is untrue.
If I knew what was true, I’d probably be willing to sweat and strive
for it, and maybe even to die for it to the tune of bugle-blasts. But
so far I have not found it.