Letters of James Gibbons Huneker
Collected and Edited by . New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons. 1922. 8vo. xvi+324 pp.
THE chief impression made by these letters is one of a gorgeous, splendid, fruitful hurry to get the utmost out of life. There are thousands of miles to be traveled, gallons of beer to be drunk, books to be read, plays to be seen, music to be heard, and above all thousands of words to be written about all these things. ’For five years of leisure I would sell my soul; even three years.’ The crowding pressure of moving, acting, living is so great that it seems as if the man had not leisure for dying, certainly not for thinking about dying. And in such an atmosphere of haste and breathlessness there come moments when even the reader feels in a hurry to finish, feels maliciously inclined to quote the pleasant words of Sly the tinker, words which no one could better appreciate than a critic like Huneker: “T is a very excellent piece of work, madam lady: would’t were done.’
But such moments of petulance are rare; for in general one is swept onward, exhilarated, intoxicated by the swift flight of surface impressions and experiences. Those experiences may be fading, changing, may slip over us and under us and leave us gasping with a vague bewilderment. The ‘neurotic filaments which weave for humanity its picture of the external world are as fickle as the wind.’ What matters it? The gleam is there, the glitter, the moment of rapt, intense, enthralling sensation. And this is all of life that counts. Why should we ask more? Or even an explanation of that?
To be sure, in this whirlwind of shifting sensation some persons of colder mood may feel a certain lack of anchorage, may ask for some slight scaffolding of theory or abstract reflection which shall give the fleeting show stability and permanence. We are told that Mr. Cortissoz ‘ taxed Mr. Huneker with giving too little attention to “general ideas,’” and added, ’ I think he fell that interest in “general ideas,” in “classical standards,” led to the danger lying in crystallized formulas.’ So it may. But some old heads incline to turn in such a maze of quick rotation and incandescent glamour.
Yet a very slight knowledge of Huneker and of his work in general will suffice to show that his delight in the passing, passionate moment did not spring from superficiality, but was the result of deliberate judgment, and preference. General principles were cold, dead, blighting. Theories were hollow and led nowhere. ‘There are no “schools” in art or literature, only good writers and artists; there are no types, only individuals,’ That was the attitude. Live, live earnestly, live intensely, fill and thrill yourself with the swift succession of ecstatic pungencies. There will be time enough in the grave to think about it all afterward.
It is true that this fury of diversity brings fatigue with it. General principles have one merit: they introduce an element of rest into life. And as fifty and sixty come lumbering along, ‘a newspaper man in a hell of a hurry writing journalese’ finds the thought of repose grow more and more alluring. But, after all, the neatest and completest form of repose is death, and we are all likely to be saturated with it sooner or later. In the meantime, who could associate repose with New York?
GAMALIEL BKADFOHD.
These reviews will be reprinted separately in pamphlet form. Copies may be had by any librarian, without charge, on application to the Atlantic Monthly, 8 Arlington St., Boston.