anthology, for which he was seeking contributions. He mentioned several
well-known poets who would be represented, and requested a brief
notice, which I was constrained to grant. What he had neglected to say,
however, was that while the well-known poets did indeed appear and of
course were not asked to pay, the rank and file of the contributors
were required to subscribe for half a dozen copies each, at four
dollars a copy.
A similar scheme, for which I was repeatedly asked to give space,
involved composers who set poems to music, as the basis for promised
public concerts that were never held; and collected fees of about ten
dollars for each selection. This, it must be said, was hardly more
reprehensible than the action of the publisher who, also inviting a
free notice, issued a _Who’s Who in American Poetry_; it turned out
that this “indispensable directory,” aside from listing a few of the
obvious leaders, acknowledged the importance only of bards who would
dole out four dollars and seventy-five cents each for a copy. I fear
that I smiled just a little wrily to discover that many devotees of the
Muse, who “just could not afford” one dollar to support a legitimate
enterprise, had apparently no hesitation about investing in rackets of
this type.
But for unblushing chicanery, the publishers of the alleged _Who’s Who_
were scarcely equal to a certain mid-Western authors’ review which
solicited an exchange advertisement. As it claimed a considerable
circulation and I knew of no good reason to distrust its statements, I
thought it to my advantage to accept the advertisement--which announced
that it would begin publishing poetry with its next issue, and would
pay a specified sum. So far, so good! not only _Wings_, but six or
eight other poetry magazines, ran the advertisement. And how deeply we
were all to regret our rashness! Before long, our mailbags began to
bear almost daily complaints; many readers had submitted manuscripts
to the authors’ review--and invariably with the same result. One poem
by each writer was accepted, but not by the magazine to which it had
been submitted. The poem enjoyed the still more inviting fate of being
kept for the _Thornwall Anthology_, a “beautiful volume” in preparation
“on a cooperative basis”--which is to say that each contributor must
cooperate to the extent of purchasing twelve dollars’ worth of copies.
I should add that the authors’ review, now long out of existence, never
did publish or pay for any poem whatever.
CHAPTER
FIFTEEN
A Challenge to Giants
There are magazines whose policies are as devious as a river; there
are others that, like the proverbial arrow, aim straight toward their
destination. Certainly, it is no exaggeration to say that I have tried
to keep _Wings_ in the latter category, particularly with regard to
the perennial controversy between traditional and “modernistic” verse.
In this controversy _Wings_ has played a part that some would call
conservative, or even ultra-conservative--which is a little strange, in
view of the fact that the editor is not in other things a conservative.
He has sometimes wondered, also, whether the true conservative is
not he who drifts with the crowd; whether, in a world where the vast
majority proclaims itself in favor of “modernism,” the independent who
stands out against “modernism” is not the actual radical.
I will not deny that in some ways the situation in contemporary poetry
is deeply confused. But in other regards, everything has impressed me
as pellucidly clear. First of all, it has always struck me that certain
elements are necessary in poetry, in this age as in all others. One
is the ingredient of music: “She dwells with Beauty--Beauty that must
die,” has a musical sound, as much today as when Keats wrote it, and
therefore has at least one of the qualities of poetry; but “She dwells
with ash-cans--ash-cans by a brick wall,” has no more music than the
thumping of a garbage truck. In much the same way, poetry creates,
and always has created, a magic or suggestiveness which is not that
of prose; and in this respect also the line about beauty qualifies,
but that about the ash-can does not. And, finally, poetry--like all
writing--should be as clear as the subject-matter and the skill of the
writer make possible; which does not imply that the meaning must always
stand out like a steel engraving, but that it must be as lucid as the
theme and the author’s ability permit, and that murkiness must not be
sought for its own sake.
These are, in brief, the principles that I have espoused in editorials
and reviews in _Wings_ ever since its first issue. But these
principles, though they might seem simple and self-evident, run counter
to the accepted mandates of the age, which have tended to abandon
music, and to make poetry uninspiring as a cement mixer, and unclear as
a fog-bank. And what do I mean by the “accepted mandates” of the age? I
mean the mandates of the group in power--those who control the policies
of our leading literary and sophisticated magazines, those who sit in
authority in prize committees, those who act as poetry advisers for
some of our major publishers, those who compile anthologies, and write
articles and reviews for some of the more influential media. At no time
have I denied that many of these are honest, capable, and convinced
men; but it seems to me that not a few are bewildered, and ignorant of
poetry, its nature and its history; not a few are but following the
normal human tendency to embrace whatever happens to be fashionable,
and commit the error of mistaking fashion and right.
Yet the fact is that much that is in style nowadays, and much that is
generally called poetry, has none of the qualities by which poetry
in past ages was recognized. Which majority, therefore, shall one be
aligned with?--the great preponderance of all the poets and critics
who have lived before our own century, or the few who within the past
several decades have striven to undermine yesterday’s accumulated lore
and skills? For my own part, I consider one thing self-evident: if
“modernistic” critics and verse-writers are right in their dominant
attitudes, then all of our famous predecessors, from Chaucer to A.
E. Housman, were in error. But if all the latter were in error, that
fact must be demonstrated by more cogent arguments than have yet been
adduced.
Yet can it be that all the proponents of “modernism” are wrong?
Before attempting to answer this question, let us ask whether history
shows no other cases of mistaken majorities. What of the belief in
witchcraft several centuries ago, when savants and nobles and common
men alike, from King James I of England down to the most ignorant
serving maid, were convinced believers in the reality of black magic?
What of slavery, whose abolition, it was honestly believed by many a
good man in England, America, and elsewhere, would bring inevitable
ruin to the world? What of headhunting, ceremonial cannibalism, human
sacrifice, widow-burning, and other dread rites, all of which were
accepted by large masses and even fervently defended, in some cases in
comparatively civilized lands? I do not, of course, mean to compare
modernism in verse to any of these horrors; but I do wish to emphasize
that mass acceptance of any theory, belief, or principle does not prove
the validity of the doctrine.
And in the case of recent poetry, what do we find? That some, like
Amy Lowell and John Gould Fletcher, came over to the new camp after
unskillful efforts to write in the older forms; that others, like
Wallace Stevens, William Carlos Williams, and Marianne Moore, revolted
against traditional verse without ever having shown that they could
write it; that others again, such as T. S. Eliot and Ezra Pound,
formed an _entente cordiale_ of mutually expressed admiration; that
still others, always ready to embrace the new, endorsed the “advanced”
principles for the sake of showing themselves to be different and
emancipated; that certain others, like “e. e. cummings” with his
typical lines such as “goo-dmore-ning(en” and “sing thatthis is
which what yell itfulls o,” performed the antics of circus clowns,
and finding themselves taken seriously, performed still more bizarre
antics; that many opportunists, of the sort who exist at all times
and in every circle, joined the procession for the sake of personal
advantage; that more and more bystanders trailed along out of fear or
in order not to appear behind the times; and that the great majority,
deeming themselves incompetent to judge and not daring to deny the word
of authority, stood by in apparent acquiescence though actually in
profound bewilderment and even in secret disgust.
Such, in a word, is my own interpretation of the rise of “modernism”
in verse, and indeed in all the arts. And such has been the conviction
behind the editorial policy of _Wings_. From the first, I realized that
my stand was challenging giants. I realized that I might put myself
under a personal cloud. But in the long run, all that counted was the
truth, and the only truth I could defend was truth as it appeared
through my own eyes. My judgment, like that of any human, might be
blurred, distorted, or perverted; but such as it was, it was my own; it
was all I had to go by, and it would have been despicable and cowardly
to stand by and muffle the convictions burning within me. And what if
I were to be penalized for speaking? In what period of history, and in
what land, have men not been penalized for speaking? Not that I had any
taste for martyrdom; but that I was convinced that the game of poetry,
like every other game, was not worth playing except in one way. There
may be those who can complacently accept whatever they believe to be
the mood of the age, and adapt their style to that mood; but I must
unhappily confess that I am not one of those pliable souls, and that
I should hide my face in shame even were the high honor of a Pulitzer
Prize or a Nobel Prize to come to me for work that I knew to represent
a compromise with standards that were not my own, and a truckling to
mere vulgar acceptability.
On the road which I have followed, followed perhaps with a mulish
intractability but certainly without wide meanderings, there have been
both penalties and compensations. The penalties have been those of shut
doors--and of occasional abuse and misrepresentation. Once or twice
a small “modernistic” magazine has honored me with a long article in
which my purposes, principles, and methods were entirely misstated. And
more than once a larger magazine has lent its pages to the controversy;
in one case the writer even descended to language of the gutter in
counter-attack when logic evidently failed him. And in other cases,
as in Randall Jarrell’s widely circulated _Poetry and the Age_, my
statements are subjected to a deliberate or unconscious distortion
that make them look about as a man’s image would appear through a
convex mirror. I do not wish to harp upon this point, but let me give
an example. Mr. Jarrell, referring to the preface of my anthology _The
Music Makers_, reports that I say that any poem must be, among other
things, “easy to understand.” This could logically be taken to mean
that I think that every poem should be on the level of Mother Goose;
and if I meant anything like that, I would be even more of a fool than
nature has made me. But what I say is the following:
Poetry may have both a satisfying rhythm and a touch of magic and yet
not be completely satisfying if it be without a third factor, which
for want of a better term we may call clarity. This is not to say
that it need have the simplicity of a kindergarten exercise; complex
themes by their very nature require complexities of utterance, yet
since the purpose of all expression is communication, whether of a
thought, a mood or an emotion, the consummate writer in any field
will phrase his messages as clearly as is consistent with their
thorough presentation.
There are more ways than one of damaging a reputation; and not the
least effective is by misstating a writer’s position so as to make him
appear silly. I should add that Mr. Jarrell’s publisher, though a man
of the highest reputation in his profession, and though writing me that
“I certainly would not want any reputable person like yourself to feel
that a book published by us did him substantial injustice in any way,”
refused my request for changes in the offending passages in subsequent
editions of the book; nor did Mr. Jarrell at any time apologize or
offer to make even partial amends.
In quite another way, I was to have a glimpse into the sharp and
biassed discrimination that occurs in the supposedly high-minded
and idealistic realm of poetry. The incident was a minor one, of no
intrinsic importance; and would not be worth reporting except for its
implications. There was a certain man (let me call him “Jones”) who had
once briefly visited me at my home, and was editing a magazine of free
verse--to which, naturally, I did not seek admittance. But one day I
read that Jones had started a new magazine, to be devoted exclusively
to traditional poetry. Since this was in my field, I had no hesitation
about mailing him two or three poems, along with the usual stamped
return-envelope. Sometime later the poems came back, along with a note:
“Dear C.: I rather like your verses entitled _Compensation_ and would
have ordinarily accepted them; but in view of what is being said as to
the position you have taken in poetry, I am afraid I must send them
back.”
Whether or not my poem was published by this particular magazine
was, of course, a matter of no importance; I would not under normal
circumstances have given a second thought either to its acceptance
or its rejection. But Jones, by his naive words, had made immense
disclosures; had unwittingly bared things which a shrewder editor
would have hidden beneath a gloss of words. That any man could be
such a craven as to refuse a manuscript because of what someone else
was saying as to the position in poetry taken by the writer!--this to
me was a notion so new, so startling that I had to read the sentence
several times in order to make sure it was real. I doubt whether Jones
had any idea at all how bitterly offensive his comment was; I will
even give him credit for meaning the statement by way of a friendly
explanation. But his attitude of mind, I thought, was exactly that
which has been too familiar in the past, when men have been sent to the
dungeon or the stake because of what someone else has said about their
heretical views.
Then, for the first time, I fully realized that I too was guilty of
heresy--yes, guilty of heresy because I had tried to uphold poetic
standards against those who, I was firmly convinced, were the true
heretics. I have since had reason to suppose that other editors, and
more influential ones, have followed the same principles as Jones. But
I still have not learned just “what was being said” as to the position
I had taken in poetry. Against known and spoken charges I have never
felt any incapacity to defend myself. But against unknown and concealed
accusations I am helpless.
Sometimes I have wondered what is really desired by those critics and
editors who seem to feel that the devil himself has smoked his way
into any attitude of mind that happens to oppose their own. Perhaps
their ideal is that which Matthew Arnold expresses in two lines--not,
however, as an ideal, but in despair at the modern lack of faith:
Light half believers of our casual creeds,
Who never deeply felt, nor clearly will’d.
These “light half believers,” surely, never find anyone who objects to
their position strongly enough to blacklist them.
But whatever the costs of uttering ones convictions, the rewards have
been considerable. These rewards have been all the richer for not being
of a concrete or material nature; they have come in friendships formed,
usually by correspondence only; and in letters that have drifted in
from men and women all over the country, and even from Canada and
England; many from unknown persons, but some from noteworthy poets.
Thus I learned that there was an undercurrent of support for my views,
a wide opposition and resentment against “modernistic” perversions,
and a simple longing for the poetry that sings, and that speaks to the
imagination and the heart. But most of the lovers of the older poetry,
I found, could not make themselves vocal; they had no organ for their
opinions, which they usually expressed by ceasing to buy or even to
read contemporary poetry. Hence _Wings_ filled for them a long-felt
need.
I wish that I had space to quote from some of the many letters of
commendation. Not, of course, that I took them all seriously; I soon
learned to recognize the honeyed words that besought a honeyed favor,
the sugary speech that accompanied submitted manuscripts or books
forwarded for review--experience was to teach me that the writers would
be as likely as not, at the next winking of an eye, to turn to the
opposite camp, if this seemed to suit their purposes. But the honest
approbation of persons who had no axe to grind, and who wrote from
remote places to tell how they had been helped or elated (and who often
accompanied their letters with tangible proof in the way of unsolicited
subscriptions) has been heart-warming, and has made it easier to keep
on at times when I was inclined to wonder why any man in his right mind
would run a poetry magazine.
Beyond this, I have been urged on by the knowledge that _Wings_ has
provided a medium of publication for poets in a world where media of
publication are fast fading out. Perhaps this will seem no great thing;
but without the springs that supply the streams, the streams will dry
up. True, the poets themselves frequently seem not to realize this, and
too often will not support the very magazines that encourage their own
efforts to fly; but this is not true of all, nor nearly all. And many
of them--though the editor knows that he will never look into their
eyes, nor shake their hands--have made themselves as dear to him and as
real as persons actually seen.
It is for this reason, more than for any other, that I have never
regretted the strange and devious unraveling of fate that has taken me
along the road of editorship. And it is for this reason that I would
not, even if I could, change one inch of the route I have traveled.
CHAPTER
SIXTEEN
A Recruit for Publishers’ Row
In those innocent early days when I blandly assumed the ownership,
editorship, and management of a poetry magazine, I did not foresee that
my new duties were to lead toward the great world of book publication,
even in its more limited phases. But he who winds along unknown roads
may expect to arrive at strange destinations.
Had it not been for my long poem, _The Pageant of Man_, I might never
have made the beginnings. This extensive work, finished in the early
fall of 1935, duly made its visits to several editorial offices--how
many, my records do not tell me; but the number, within a mere few
months, could not have been great. I do recall that one or two
publishers professed interest; but when the reports came in, I listened
to the old, old story: the editorial department approved, but the sales
department was less sanguine; it could see no sufficient market, hence
the manuscript was coming back to me with regrets, etc. Now I would not
for a moment imply that the sales departments, from their own point
of view, were not quite right; certainly, there were more promising
investments than a poem of Gargantuan length (one which eventually
would cover 319 well-filled octavo pages). Nevertheless, the verdict
was not gratifying to the author.
It may be that I was growing impatient; it may be that some publisher,
had I persisted, would have uttered the fervently desired “Yes!” But
it is a curious thing that a writer, having toiled at a book with
painstaking patience over a period of years, may all at once squirm
with impatience after the results of his labor have been confided to
paper. I had produced what was certainly (and not in bulk only, I
thought) my most considerable effort; and I wanted doors to open upon
it, I wanted it to breathe the fresh air and see the light. Therefore
it was exasperating to have the sales departments keep it in darkness.
My exasperation, however, was to be short-lived. In the winter of 1936,
an unexpected windfall came to me from a never-to-be-repeated source--a
mountainous sum, slightly more than a thousand dollars. And with money
comes temptation. Almost instantly, an insidious thought thrust itself
into my mind. Perhaps this would enable me to publish _The Pageant of
Man_ on my own account. I knew that authors far more celebrated than
myself had published their own work, occasionally with notable success;
the names of Upton Sinclair and others were in my mind. Even if the
saddest of sad luck were to pursue me, and I were to lose my thousand
dollars--at least, the book would be in print, and I would be no
worse off than before receiving the money. True, the craft of writing
should, ideally, remain distinct from the business of publishing;
authors should devote their time to writing, and publishers should be
specialists in book production and distribution. So I should have said,
even a short while before--but now, on the contrary, my attitude was:
why hold back?--never venture, never succeed!
At least, I would explore the possibilities. The first problem,
therefore, was to find a printer. Mr. Grossman, the printer of _Wings_,
with his small establishment, had not the facilities for a book such as
_The Pageant of Man_, and I knew no other reliable person. But there
are times when fate, with all the appearance of intelligent intention,
puts one into touch with just the needed person at precisely the
desired time. While I was wondering as to printers, a letter reached
me from a man I had never heard of before, Joseph A. Wennrich, who
represented an establishment known as The Guild Bookcrafters; he had
seen _Wings_, and wished to bid on printing it. As it happened, I was
quite pleased with The Artype Press, and needed no bid on printing
_Wings_; but Wennrich’s letter put a thought into my mind: the Guild
Bookcrafters, to judge from their name, might be able to print _The
Pageant of Man_. In any case, I would find out.
A telephone call brought immediate action. Mr. Wennrich, assuring
me that book printing was his specialty, arranged to visit me that
evening. I looked forward to the interview; but strangely, the
appointed hour came and went, and no visitor rang my bell. “Well, that
ends that,” I thought. “So this Wennrich is just another of those
unreliables, whom I’d better not get entangled with.”
But I had done him an injustice. Next morning he telephoned; explained
that, at the last minute, something unavoidable had prevented his
coming, and even made it impossible to notify me; and asked to be
excused, and permitted to visit me the coming evening. And he did visit
me as requested--and all through the years of our ensuing relationship
he proved to be not only highly capable, but dependable almost to the
point of punctiliousness.
He turned out to be a tall, nervous-mannered, explosively enthusiastic
man in his late thirties. His chief interest was less in printing for
its own sake than in book designing, and he soon convinced me that he
had taste, inventiveness, and originality, as well as abounding energy
and a thorough knowledge of his craft. From him I was to receive what
was in effect a private course in the making of books.