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THE GATE OF KNOWLEDGE "Behold, I stand at the door, and KNOCK."
Published in the International New York, New York, U.S.A. (page 284)
THE BOOK OF THE MONTH.
"A Chaste Man," by Louis U. Wilkinson. (Alfred A. Knopf, 1917.) Mr. Wilkinson’s new book is a distinct advance on The Buffoon. In that work he showed himself as a novelist of manners of great excellence, but, he gave no indication of his new development. The new book places him among the supreme masters of tragedy. He is not merely equal to the greatest of the Russians, but superior to them; for the worst tragedies of Russia can never equal those of England. Russia, at the very worst, is a place where something happens. In England lives are ruined by the hundred thousand through the fact that nothing happens or ever can happen. Even the war seems to leave but a superficial impression.
The book opens by showing us the hero duly reminding Mr. Somebody that this is the third application, etc., and that unless, etc., and remains his faithfully. Despite the enthralling adventure described in the book, the hero has not enough sense to live up to his opportunities. As a result he is found on the last page still reminding Mr. Somebody that this is the third application, etc. People have got so habituated to this sort of thing that they seem to have lost consciousness of its horror.
There is practically no difference between the life of a pauper and that of a young man in a good situation like the hero of this book. Life should be intolerable without hope in youth of doing worthy things, and memory in age of worthy things accomplished. Under the modern industrial system 95 per cent of the population never get a chance either for hope or memory. Yet life is not intolerable to them, for the virile spirit has been destroyed by generations of “propriety.”
In this novel is conveyed with overwhelming power the tremendous moral lesson that a man, by refusing to grasp the nettle of fate, not only fails in himself, but ruins others. The final tragedy of the girl Olga is indeed most pitiful. Yet, it is a tragedy which happens every day. That, in fact, raises one’s sense of pity from the personal to the cosmic. One begins to realize the appalling price that has to be paid for cheap clothes and what are absurdly called the conveniences of life.
If people could awake to a true sense of the universe, they would understand that a year in the trenches is much better than a year in the comfortable home. The ancients knew that the soul must be purged by pity and terror; and these are just the elements against which modern civilization has been striving. The cosmic catastrophe in which it has been involved is the only good thing about it. Comfort, regularity, peace are the most dreadful enemies of the soul.
If I look back upon my life, I find that the only things worth remembering are the adventures, the times when I was undergoing incredible hardships, when I was in hourly peril of immediate death. Of course, it may be different if one is a tame animal; but how dreadful a thing it is to be tame!
This book is written with sublime simplicity, with that art which conceals art. Every page is interesting in itself, yet every incident is duly subordinate to the brooding horror of the main theme. The Buddhists say that the three great enemies of the soul are greed, hatred and dullness. How could one better describe life in a modern city? Dr. Wilkinson has seized upon this gruesome theme with the aplomb of a master. Without a high-pitched voice, without violence or didacticism, he lays bare the corpse of our modern death-in-life.
A. QUILLER, JR. [Aleister Crowley]
"Jap Herron," a novel written from the Ouija Board (Mitchell Kennerley). "The Love Letters of St. John," (Mitchell Kennerley). Literary forgeries are sometimes interesting, but they have to be clever. It is possible that St. John corresponded with a courtesan, but we should be more satisfied as to the authenticity of such a correspondence if we had the manuscript. As the person responsible for the volume claims to have had letters that were given to an old priest in Tuscany long ago, we might at least have had a sample of the original. Instead, we obtain nothing but stuff which would hardly do for the sob column of the least sophisticated evening paper. The ideas attributed to St. John are so cheaply sentimental, and the attempt to imitate part of his style is so crude, that one simply cannot bother to attempt a serious analysis. There is nothing in the book but vague drivel. It is the most modern brainless tosh. The worst of all ancient authors never abandoned himself to such a debauch of futile footling. The whole thing is beneath contempt.
Jap Herron is prefaced by an elaborate introduction as to how the book was obtained. We have no wish to doubt that the spiritualists who did it are sincere. They may think that Mark Twain wrote this book; but if so, Mark Twain has simply forgotten how to write. It is hardly even a washed-out Mark Twain. There is not a line of humor or a phrase of wit in the entire production, of the kind that one could call characteristic.
There appears to be a kind of painstaking imitation of the style, such as might be within the powers of one of those playful elemental spirits who love to make fun of those who invoke them without proper magical precautions; but no one with the smallest sense of criticism could possibly imagine that Mark Twain wrote this book. It limps a thousand miles behind the feeblest of his earthly efforts. I say this not by any means as a whole-hearted admirer of Mark Twain. I think he wrote a great deal of third-rate stuff, forced humor, false sentiment, at times sheer tosh. But this book is a revelation of how good that bad stuff was.
On the other hand, it may be argued that Mark Twain is now “regenerate.” His new experiences may have modified his attitude to things terrestrial. The book, standing on its own feet, might be found interesting and genial; on the stilts of spiritualism it fails.
MILES. [Aleister Crowley]
"The Crimes of Charity," by K. Bercovici. (Alfred A. Knopf, 1917). The Crimes of Charity is one of the most interesting books of the season. It is also one of the most heart-rending. The author has not attacked persons; he has confined himself to exposing the effects of wrong principles. Nevertheless his book has been boycotted by many of the libraries. The book is splendidly written. The author has the great gift of enabling the reader to visualize the scenes described without effort. Merely as an artistic production, this book ranks extremely high. Each section is a perfect little vignette of humanity. It must not be missed by anyone who wishes to qualify for the Abou Ben Adhem class.
A.C. [Aleister Crowley]
"Spirit Intercourse, Its Theory and Practice," by J. Hewat McKenzie. (Mitchell Kennerley, 1917). I have never read such nauseating twaddle as this book. The author is so ignorant, so impudently ignorant, that he even claims ordinary vaudeville performances as operated by spiritual means! There is also a great deal of disgusting nonsense about the frightful things that happen to you after death if you lead a normal healthy life on earth.
A. QUILLER, JR. [Aleister Crowley]
"The Hand Invisible." Edited by E. B. Harriett. (International Historical Society, Inc., New York, 1917.) This is a very interesting book. No great pains have been taken to insist upon the nature of the means in which it was obtained. The book therefore stands or falls by its own merit; and in this case the merit is considerable. It is true that there is not any particular new truth; but there is much which cannot fail to help and encourage a great many people in this country. At times the thought is decidedly epigrammatic. “Painted fun knows no mirth.”
There is much quiet wisdom, one may say, on almost every page. It is not a book which will be of any use to those who are spiritually advanced in the technical sense; but its influence upon the average reader can but be helpful.
MILES. [Aleister Crowley]
"Kelly of the Foreign Legion." (Mitchell Kennerley, 1917.) Most writers of war stories have been sophisticated persons who thought that they had better put in some fine writing and some profound philosophical thoughts. Among them, thank God, is not to be found Kelly of the Foreign Legion. I think we may take him as the average soldier. A perfectly simple-minded, decent good fellow. His highest thoughts about the war are to say that it is an asinine thing. We consequently get a very charming account of what soldiers really go through, without the slightest attempt at swank, and padding, and trying to make an impression. It is quite the best book on the war I have yet seen.
A.C. [Aleister Crowley] |