the rhythm of life and other essays(生命的旋律)-第11部分
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pain takes on an edge when it not only enforces a pang but whispers a
phrase。 Consciousness and the word are almost as closely united as
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thought and the word。 Almostnot quite； in spite of its inexpressive
speech； the narrow house is aware and sensitive beyond； as it were； its
poor power。
But as to the whole disparity between the destiny and the nature； we
know it to be general。 Life is great that is trivially transmitted； love is
great that is vulgarly experienced。 Death； too； is a heroic virtue； and to
the keeping of us all is death committed： death； submissive in the
indocile； modest in the fatuous； several in the vulgar； secret in the familiar。
It is destructive because it not only closes but contradicts life。 Unlikely
people die。 The one certain thing； it is also the one improbable。 A
dreadful paradox is perhaps wrought upon a little nature that is incapable
of death and yet is constrained to die。 That is a true destruction； and the
thought of it is obscure。
Happy literature corrects all this disproportion by its immortal pause。
It does not bid us follow man or woman to an illogical conclusion。 Mrs。
Micawber never does desert Mr。 Micawber。 Considering her mental
powers； by the way； an illogical conclusion for her would be manifestly
inappropriate。 Shakespeare； indeed； having seen a life whole； sees it to
an end： sees it out； and Falstaff dies。 More than Promethean was the
audacity that； having kindled； quenched that spark。 But otherwise the
grotesque man in literature is immortal； and with something more
significant than the immortality awarded to him in the sayings of rhetoric；
he is predurable because he is not completed。 His humours are strangely
matched with perpetuity。 But； indeed； he is not worthy to die； for there is
something graver than to be immortal； and that is to be mortal。 I protest I
do not laugh at man or woman in the world。 I thank my fellow…mortals
for their wit； and also for the kind of joke that the French so pleasantly call
une joyeusete； these are to smile at。 But the gay injustice of laughter is
between me and the book。
That narrow housethere is sometimes a message from its living
windows。 Its bewilderment； its reluctance； its defect； show by moments
from eyes that are apt to express none but common things。 There are
allusions unawares； involuntary appeals； in those brief glances。 Far from
me and from my friends be the misfortune of meeting such looks in reply
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to pain of our inflicting。 To be clever and sensitive and to hurt the
foolish and the stolidwouldst thou do such a deed for all the world？
Not I； by this heavenly light。
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REJECTION
Simplicity is not virginal in the modern world。 She has a penitential
or a vidual singleness。 We can conceive an antique world in which life；
art； and letters were simple because of the absence of many things； for us
now they can be simple only because of our rejection of many things。
We are constrained to such a vigilance as will not let even a master's work
pass unfanned and unpurged。 Even among his phrases one shall be taken
and the other left。 For he may unawares have allowed the habitualness
that besets this multitudinous life to take the pen from his hand and to
write for him a page or a word； and habitualness compels our refusals。
Or he may have allowed the easy impulse of exaggeration to force a
sentence which the mere truth； sensitively and powerfully pausing； would
well have become。 Exaggeration has played a part of its own in human
history。 By depreciating our language it has stimulated change； and has
kept the circulating word in exercise。 Our rejection must be alert and
expert to overtake exaggeration and arrest it。 It makes us shrewder than
we wish to be。 And； indeed； the whole endless action of refusal shortens
the life we could desire to live。 Much of our resolution is used up in the
repeated mental gesture of adverse decision。 Our tacit and implicit
distaste is made explicit； who shall say with what loss to our treasury of
quietness？ We are defrauded of our interior ignorance； which should be a
place of peace。 We are forced to confess more articulately than befits our
convention with ourselves。 We are hurried out of our reluctances。 We
are made too much aware。 Nay； more： we are tempted to the outward
activity of destruction； reviewing becomes almost inevitable。 As for the
spiritual lifeO weary； weary act of refusal！ O waste but necessary
hours； vigil and wakefulness of fear！ 'We live by admiration' only a
shortened life who live so much in the iteration of rejection and repulse。
And in the very touch of joy there hides I know not what ultimate denial；
if not on one side； on the other。 If joy is given to us without reserve； not
so do we give ourselves to joy。 We withhold； we close。 Having denied
many things that have approached us； we deny ourselves to many things。
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Thus does il gran rifiuto divide and rule our world。
Simplicity is worth the sacrifice； but all is not sacrifice。 Rejection has
its pleasures； the more secret the more unmeasured。 When we garnish a
house we refuse more furniture； and furniture more various； than might
haunt the dreams of decorators。 There is no limit to our rejections。 And
the unconsciousness of the decorators is in itself a cause of pleasure to a
mind generous； forbearing； and delicate。 When we dress； no fancy may
count the things we will none of。 When we write； what hinders that we
should refrain from Style past reckoning？ When we marry。 Moreover；
if simplicity is no longer set in a world having the great and beautiful
quality of fewness； we can provide an equally fair setting in the quality of
refinement。 And refinement is not to be achieved but by rejection。 One
who suggests to me that refinement is apt to be a mere negative has
offered up a singular blunder in honour of robustiousness。 Refinement is
not negative； because it must be compassed by many negations。 It is a
thing of price as well as of value； it demands immolations； it exacts
experience。 No slight or easy charge； then； is committed to such of us as；
having apprehension of these things； fulfil the office of exclusion。 Never
before was a time when derogation was always so near； a daily danger； or
when the reward of resisting it was so great。 The simplicity of literature；
more sensitive； more threatened； and more important than other
simplicities； needs a guard of honour； who shall never relax the good will
nor lose the good heart of their intolerance。
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THE LESSON OF LANDSCAPE
The landscape； like our literature； is apt to grow and to get itself
formed under too luxurious ideals。 This is the evil work of that LITTLE
MORE which makes its insensible but persistent additions to styles； to the
arts； to the ornaments of lifeto nature； when unluckily man becomes too
explicitly conscious of her beauty； and too deliberate in his arrangement of
it。 The landscape has need of moderation； of that fast…disappearing grace
of unconsciousness； and； in short； of a return towards the ascetic temper。
The English way of landowning； above all； has made for luxury。
Naturally the country is fat。 The trees are thick and rounda world of
leaves； the hills are round； the forms are all blunt； and the grass is so deep
as to have almost the effect of snow in smoothing off all points and
curving away all abruptness。 England is almost as blunt as a machine…
made moulding or a piece of Early…Victorian cast…iron work。 And on all
this we have； of set purpose； improved by our invention of the country
park。 There all is curves and masses。 A little more is added to the
greenness and the softness of the forest glade； and for increase of
ornament the fat land is devoted to idleness。 Not a tree that is
