The true writer is a sort of social seismograph, sensitive to every
change that takes place in the life of the race. Literature is,
therefore, the record in which is told the story of social movements,
the mirror which reflects the history of the ages. The peace and strife,
the faith and unfaith, the love and the malice of all the past lives in
the literature which it has produced.
The great war was preceded by a period of fermenting stagnation. It was
a period of suppressed restlessness and hidden fears. The little
eruptions on the surface of its seemingly placid literature bespoke the
deeper feelings and hidden gropings of the time. At length the pent-up
fury of things burst into a volcano of war.
The war produced a literature of its own. It ran like a golden thread
through the vast mass of ordinary war propaganda. Most of the propaganda
was of mere brain origin, but the real literature of the war was born in
the depths of the tried souls of men.
One day I had occasion to mention to a friend the spiritual cost of the
war. I remarked that in addition to all that the struggle had cost us in
money, and even in blood, we had paid an unutterable price in the loss of
brains that were born to think, souls that were made to dream, and lips
that were fashioned to sing. She promptly replied that, while this was
true, the war had awakened a great many minds to thoughtfulness, taught
a multitude of souls the magic secret of weaving the fabric of dreams,
and put a song into many lips that had hitherto been dumb.
She was right. Many singers and tellers of tales went down in the crash
of things, but out of it came many others who had been reborn. The war
has invigorated literature for a long while to come. We shall not soon
see another stagnant age.
Having had a war literature, we now face the period in which is to be
born a post-war literature. It is a common thought among people
everywhere that during the years between 1914 and 1918 the elements
melted with fervent heat. The old world has been done away, and all
things are ready to be made new. The outlines of seas and continents
are the same as before, but the viewpoint, outlook, and general
consciousness of the race are totally changed. It could hardly seem more
so if we had been bodily transported to another planet. The new age will
express itself in a new literature—a reconstruction literature.
The literature of pre-war writers already seems to belong to a very
remote time. Scott, and Thackeray, and Dickens will never lose their
literary excellence, but the time has already come when their work seems
to belong to another world. The fundamental principles of life have not
changed, but our attitude toward life and our application of those
principles have changed mightily. A broader interpretation of them is now
a necessity. This service must be rendered by the pen of the writer.
Writers can now turn their attention from the production of propaganda
and concern themselves more vitally with the real mission of the author.
The world will warmly welcome, be it also said, a time when it may feel
that the writer of its reading matter had no axe to grind in the writing.
The German Empire offered an instance of the sad extent to which the pen
can be prostituted for propaganda. Education, Science, Philosophy, and
Literature were all made to serve the selfish ends of a party struggling
to build a super-state upon a foundation of self-interest. At such a
time, the soul of greatness dies from any land. Those who usher in such
periods dig the grave of pure literature by the purchase of its makers.
The wielder of the pen is now able to face the problems of life and deal
with the principles of truth with an open mind. This has not been true
with most since the war began. The weakness of human nature overcame many
minds which before the war had manifested commendable poise and evident
sincerity. In Germany and in almost every other country as well,
erstwhile careful thinkers seemed to cast to the winds all the calmness
of reason and temper of soul they had ever possessed. There was a perfect
Babel of efforts to prove that all the right was on one side and all the
wrong on the other. Butchers were whitewashed into angels, and champions
of justice were caricatured into buffoons by pens which were supposed to
be dedicated to the telling of the truth.
During the year 1916, a German anthropologist published an article in
which he proved, to his own satisfaction, that to be a Frenchman
necessarily meant to be a moral degenerate. During the same year, a
French anthropologist proved, with equal fervor and with equal
satisfaction to himself, that to be a German necessarily meant to be a
criminal lunatic. So long as such conceptions prevail in the minds of
thinkers and investigators, there can be neither literature nor science
of any dependable sort.
It may be some time before the squint of prejudice is entirely removed
from the thinking of the various peoples involved in the war. Gradually,
however, it must necessarily relax from its violence. Thinkers should now
do their best to work with only truth for a standard. The saner our
reconstruction writings prove, the more potent they will be. Nothing but
truth can ultimately prevail.
While the war, as is always the case with wars, has caused much violent
prejudice, and has led many talented people to defend a cause in
forgetfulness of truth, it has at the same time performed one great
service to literature. It has served to bring the work of writers on the
various subjects down from the ethereal heights of mystical theory to the
solid levels of plain thinking and everyday living.
In order to produce the materials and solve the problems necessary to the
winning of the war, Science was obliged to turn its work into the most
practical channels. No thoughtful person will insinuate that Science is
useless since it has helped us in so many ways to save the day in a great
national emergency. The completeness of the abandon with which scientific
investigators and writers gave themselves to war problems is evidenced by
the fact that at the 1917 meeting of the American Academy for the
Advancement of Science, almost every address dealt with some problem
incident to the war and the needs of the nation.
The trends in Philosophy and Theology were alike profoundly affected by
the wartime spirit. In no single year of the past have these two
departments of thought made such progress in their efforts to get down
where men live and to deal with the problems which are real to people as
they have made during either of the past two years. As a result, they are
more intelligible, more helpful, and more widely adapted for vital use.
Imaginary problems and arbitrary arguments have been largely laid aside.
The literature of these least tangible subjects has come to deal with
them in the most tangible way. It considers more and more the problems
of everyday life and work.
There has been sown into the literature of the various nations a certain
moral and spiritual element which is very indicative of the trend of
human thought and desire. An unusual number of dramas, for instance,
are dealing with moral and spiritual themes and principles. The
situations with which the war brought men face to face caused some of
life’s great questions to demand an answer. People who had long put
those questions aside came to face them squarely. Out of our late
experience, probably most people came with some intelligible attitude
toward the supreme questions related to living and dying. Neither are
we any longer afraid to face them either in books or upon the stage.
The literature of the new age may not be reflective, but it will be vital.
The prophet of truth never faced such an opportunity as now.