* * *
I am out of work. I doubt if I feel the better for it, much as the work was distasteful, though I expect it’s the hankering thought of the consequences, pecuniary, etc., that bothers me... All one’s thoughts seem to revolve round to one point — death. It is horrible, especially at night, ‘in the silence of the midnight’; it seems to clutch at your thought — you can’t breathe. Oh, I think, work, work, any work, only to stop one thinking.
* * *
One conceives one’s lot (I suppose it’s the same with all people, no matter what their condition) to be terribly tragic. You are the victim of a horrible conspiracy; everything is unfair. The gods have either forgotten you or made you a sort of scapegoat to bear all the punishment. I believe, however hard one’s lot is, one ought to try and accommodate oneself to the conditions; and except in a case of purely physical pain, I think it can be done. Why not make the very utmost of our lives?... I’m a practical economist in this respect. I endeavour to waste nothing... Waste words! Not to talk is to waste words...
To most people life is a musical instrument on which they are unable to play: but in the musician’s hands it becomes a living thing... The artist can see beauty everywhere, anywhere...
* * *
You mustn’t forget the circumstances I have been brought up in, the little education I have had. Nobody ever told me what to read, or ever put poetry in my way. I don’t think I knew what real poetry was till I read Keats a couple of years ago. True, I galloped through Byron when I was about fourteen, but I fancy I read him more for the story than for the poetry. I used to try to imitate him. Anyway, if I didn’t quite take to Donne at first, you understand why. Poetical appreciation is only newly bursting on me. I always enjoyed Shelley and Keats. The ‘Hyperion’ ravished me...
Whenever I read anything in a great man’s life that pulls him down to me, my heart always pleads for him, and my mind pictures extenuating circumstances.
* * *
Have you ever picked up a book that looks like a Bible on the outside, but is full of poetry or comic within? My Hood is like that, and, I am afraid, so am I. Whenever I feel inclined to laugh, my visage assumes the longitude and gravity of a church spire.
* * *
I can’t say I have ever experienced the power of one spirit over another except in books, of course, at least in any intense way that you mean. Unless you mean the interest one awakes in us, and we long to know more, and none other. I suppose we are all influenced by everybody we come in contact with, in a subconscious way, if not direct, and everything that happens to us is experience; but only the few know it. Most people can only see and hear the noisy sunsets, mountains and waterfalls; but the delicate greys and hues, the star in the puddle, the quiet sailing cloud, is nothing to them. Of course, I only mean this metaphorically, as distinguishing between obvious experiences and the almost imperceptible. I still have no work to do. I think, if nothing turns up here, I will go to Africa. I could not endure to live upon my people; and up till now I have been giving them from what I had managed to save up when I was at work. It is nearly run out now, and if I am to do nothing, I would rather do it somewhere else. Besides, I feel so cramped up here, I can do no drawing, reading, or anything...
Create our own experience! We can, but we don’t. Very often it’s only the trouble of a word, and who knows what we miss through not having spoken? It’s the man with impudence who has more experience than anybody. He not only varies his own, but makes other people’s his own.
* * *
Do I like music, and what music I like best? I know nothing whatever about music. Once I heard Schubert’s ‘Unfinished Symphony’ at the band; and — well, I was in heaven. It was a blur of sounds — sweet, fading and blending. It seemed to draw the sky down, the whole spirit out of me; it was articulate feeling. The inexpressible in poetry, in painting, was there expressed. But I have not heard much, and the sensation that gave me I — never had again. I should like very much to be one of the initiated.
* * *
Some more confidences. I’ve discovered I’m a very bad talker: I find it difficult to make myself intelligible at times; I can’t remember the exact word I want, and I think I leave the impression of being a rambling idiot.
* * *
The — thoroughness — is — astounding. No — slipshod, — tricky — slickness, trusting to chance effects, but a subtle suggestiveness, and accident that is the consequence of intention.
Thanks so much for the Donne. I had just been reading Ben Jonson again, and from his poem to Donne he must have thought him a giant. I have read some of the Donne; I have certainly never come across anything so choke-full of profound meaningful ideas. It would have been very difficult for him to express something commonplace, if he had to.
* * *
I forgot to ask you to return my poetry, as I mean to work on some. I agree the emotions are not worth expressing, but I thought the things had some force, and an idea or so I rather liked. Of course, I know poetry is a far finer thing than that, but I don’t think the failure was due to the subject — I had nothing to say about it, that’s all. Crashaw, I think, is sometimes very sexual in his religious poems, but it is always new and beautiful. I believe we are apt to fix a standard (of subject) in poetry. We acknowledge the poetry in subjects not generally taken as material, but I think we all (at least I do) prefer the poetical subject— ‘Kubla Khan’, ‘The Mistress of Vision’, ‘Dream-Tryst’; Poe, Verlaine. Here feeling is separated from intellect; our senses are not interfered with by what we know of facts: we know infinity through melody.
* * *
1912
159 Oxford St
Mile End E
DEAR MISS SEATON
I’m sure I don’t know what to say, or how to say it; my brains, as Sterne says, are as dry as a squeezed orange; but I’ve got your letter to answer; and my conscience wouldn’t let me sleep if I didn’t do that. Not that I don’t enjoy writing to you, (writing to and hearing from you is a real treat) but even enjoyment is a laggard at times with the end in view, and must be spurred by conscience. ‘Gee up’ says conscience, cracking his whip. ‘Where?’ cries enjoyment with dancing heart but empty head. ‘To Mademoiselle Seaton, of course, you noodle!’
‘But how?, I don’t know the road; besides my feet are heavy though my heart is light’[.] ‘That matters not’, says conscience, ‘Up, and look for it; be sharp about it too’, and here, giving a cut with the whip, enjoyment comes galloping delighted but astounded at the wide prospect of white fields of blank paper; and here I am groping for what to say, and beating the bush for ideas that won’t come. Now, you know the state of mind I’m in, or rather the mindless state I’m in, you’ll know how to take what I say. In your last letter you deprecated your powers as critic. I most emphatically disagree with your verdict, and absolutely deny your right to judge yourself. Before a less prejudiced court you are found guilty of that most heinous crime of modesty. You are convicted (the jury are all agreed) of having vilely slandered your critical abilities; of having perjured yourself by forswearing and denying the ‘gifts the gods gave you’. But I’m not going to flatter or say anything, (though I could hardly flatter); I’m sure if anyone’s got anything in one it will out, in spite of everything, though it may take time. I wish you had a little more faith in yourself.
Here is an answer to what you say about too much has been written on books. It is by Rossetti. I suppose you’ve read it. It is called ‘the choice’.
‘Think thou and act: tomorrow thou shalt die.
Outstretched in the sun’s warmth upon the shore
Thou say’st “Man’s measured path is all gone o’er:
Man clomb until he touched the truth; and I,
Even I am he whom it was destined for”.
How should this be? Art thou then so much more
Than they who sowed, that thou should’st reap thereby?
‘Nay come up hither. From this wave-washed mound
&nb
sp; Unto the furthest flood-brim look with me:
Then reach on with thy thought till it be drowned.
Miles and miles distant though the last line be
And though thy soul sail leagues and leagues beyond,
Still leagues beyond those leagues there is more sea.’
Is’nt it magnificent. What space, what suggestion of immensity.
I suppose Flint’s poems gave me pleasure because of their newness to me. They don’t seem to be ambitious, they seem to me just experiments in versification except some, which are more natural; and I think those are the ones I like best. I like of the first lot, ‘The hearts hunger’, for the energy intensity and simplicity with which it expresses that strange longing for an indefinite ideal; the haunting desire for that which is beyond the reach of hands. I like the one called ‘Exultation’, very much. The image in the last stanza; of the
‘birds, unrooted flowers of space,
Shaking to heaven a silver chime of bells’,
I think is fine.
I don’t think the measure he generally uses allows the poems to stamp itself on the mind, I’ve got a particularly bad memory, I seldom remember the words of any poem I read; but the tone of the poem, the leading idea, nearly always fix their impression. I didn’t find that with these poems; but Dr Eder told me he was very young, about 22; and I expect he’ll do something yet.
Last Sunday, I got up early, and feeling very energetic, I locked myself in till about two o’clock and worked on a painting to ‘La Belle dame Sans Merci’, ‘I set her on my pacing steed’, you know the rest, I should like you to see it. I didn’t quite get what I wanted, but — so-so. It was the first bit of painting I’ve done for months.
Here is a sonnet I wrote to Mr Amschewitz; he hasn’t seen it yet.
Well, enjoyment must come to a full stop here, breathless. Conscience growls out a sort of inarticulate monosyllable of — is it satisfaction or disgust? — but I construe the former, and — well, that is all, while enjoyment can just manage to gasp out
I am
Yours sincerely
I ROSENBERG
Does this sound as if I’m glad to come to a stop. No! — I mean the enjoyment stops with the letter, and I’m sorry I can’t think of any more — no doubt luckily for you.
1912, March
159 Oxford St
Mile End E
DEAR MISS LOWY,
I feel very elated at Mr Picciotto liking my poems, as I was very anxious to know. Nothing is rarer than good poetry — and nothing more discouraging than the writing of poetry. One might write for pleasure but I doubt, if there is no stronger motive, whether one would be incited to ambitious work. Circumstances and other considerations have prevented me from applying myself assiduously, and also diffidence — so you can imagine what a rare pleasure it is to me when people appreciate my efforts. As to the prose I sent him, it was an early thing I did some years ago — I had no other by me when I sent. You did not say whether the poem I sent you would do for the publication. Since I sent it I found in my copy the typist had been trying to improve on parts, which, when I noticed, sent me into ecstasies — and also, the two or three verses about the parents and brother should be left out. I expect though, there’s plenty of time and I may hit off something better. So your commis[s]ion bothers you. That’s a calamity indeed. All I can suggest is that you should bother it, and bother it, until you bother it into shape. I have been doing practically nothing — except leading a lordly life — not getting up till tea time and then cursing myself for letting the daylight go. Its getting terribly on my conscience. I shan’t torture you with my adventures in the land of Nod, or accounts of the wonderful dream castles I have built and unbuilt by myriads, — also not quite so substantial architecturally as those of Mr Joseph’s building.
The other night I met Michael Sherbrooke, the actor I told you of. He took me home with him and almost made me delirious with delight at some of his marvellous recitations. His power is almost incredible — I have never seen anything like it and could hardly conceive anything so. He gave the Raven. The melancholy insistence — the perpetual recurring note of despair — the gradual tightening to the climax — which is almost unbearable — and then the unutterable broken pathos of the last verse — has so tremendous a grip on you — and so supreme is the acting — one almost faints. I wish you heard it — I should like you to.
If Mr Picciotto would like to see me I should not like to go unprepared — I mean, would it be inquisitive on my part to ask you for information — you needn’t give me all his autobiography, his genealogy &c. I might know more than he knows, then, about himself — and that would be unfair, — but I have a dread of meeting people who know I write, as they expect me to talk and I am a horrible bad talker. I am in absolute agonies in company and it needs a sympathetic listener like yourself to put me at ease, — I have been tempted into a letter and I need very little tempting — so you must excuse this egotism — if a letter isn’t that its nothing.
The Pre-Raphaelite show at the Tate closes very shortly — when you get back I wish you could come with me — and exchange impressions. We would both learn. I think the Rossetti drawings would be a revelation to you.
Yours sincerely
I. ROSENBERG
Whitechapel Gallery. The paintings are in the upper gallery. Some wonderful Reynolds and Hogarths. There is Hogarth’s Peg Woffington the sweetest the most charming, most exquisite portrait of a woman I’ve ever seen. A Rossetti drawing — fine and a lot of good things. It’s open Sunday as well. You could easily manage to go in the afternoon.
I read the Ivan Turgeneff. Panshin is very good — and the aunt does live. It is very sad; I almost think books like that are immoral; in this sense that one leaves them with a discouraging sense of the futility of life; a sort of numbing effect. I like to read something joyous — bouyant, a clarion call to life, an inspirer to endeavour, something that tells one life is worth living, and not death only is worth having. You can keep ‘The man of feeling’, if you want it, I’ve got it again somewhere at home, I think.
I’ve got a letter from Dr Eder. Of course his criticism does not refer to the lastest things I showed you; but I know he’s right. Here it is, word for word
DEAR MR ROSENBERG
Do you want your verse[s] back now. I have been keeping them to show to a friend — but he is not back yet in England. Much I like very much. You are young, and your verse shows that much. My own counsel would be not to think of publishing yet awhile (I never thought [to] publish). You have the artist’s feeling for expression and for words. I should say you have not yet developed your own technique. That is not meant as a fault — [to] the contrary. But there is a fault. And that is, you have so far not given utterance to your own personality and it is all too reminiscent. I think you want courage to strike out into a line of your own. I should not write thus to anyone whom I did not respect for what he had done. We have all done a little versifying in our green days and hence these counsels.
EDER
I am sending these poems in type so you can read easier but I’ll let you have copies if you like.
Yours sincerely
I. ROSENBERG
July 15, 1912
32 Carlingford Rd
Hampstead
DEAR MISS WRIGHT
I am so glad you and your sister like my poems — and I should so like to be able to agree with you about their merits. I would have sent them to you long ago but I always had an idea of going up to the Birkbeck which somehow never came off. I should be delighted to be able to come round some evening — in the day my times are rather muddled and I don’t think it would be safe to make an appointment
I am just going to paint a fairly big picture for the school competition ‘Joy’. If you could find time ever to come and see how it was getting on and give suggestions I should be so pleased.
Yours sincerely
ISAAC ROSENBERG
To Ruth Lowy,
1912, July
I hope you have a good time when you are away — live in the garden of Joy so that when you get back you will know what sort of expression to wear when I put you in my ‘garden of Joy’. If you find you can spare a line when you are away I should be so glad to hear.
Yours sincerely
ISAAC ROSENBERG
August 6, 1912
32 Carlingford Rd
Hampstead
DEAR MISS WRIGHT
Thank you for the post card. I don’t think I shall be able to come either Wed or Thur — as Wed I have to see the dentist and Thur I believe I am getting a model in my studio — If no one turns up here I may come as I like the idea very much. I have been frantically busy — I have the working fever this week. I have started my picture again, having taken a violent dislike to my first design — it is absolutely another thing now, though the literary idea is the same. My colour conception is a wonderful scheme of rose silver and gold — just now it is all pink yellow and blue — but I have great hopes in it.
My appointment with the dentist is not till 12, so I may be able to come at 10 and leave early.
Yours sincerely
ISAAC ROSENBERG
August 10, 1912
32 Carlingford Rd
Hampstead
Friday
Complete Works of Isaac Rosenberg Page 17