Wyndham Lewis Books

"The Art of Being Ruled" is a difficult book to review, because the author (P. Wyndham Lewis) takes an ironic view of the cultural, artistic and political movements of the early 20th Century, and irony is vastly overrated as a general way of getting one's message across (you have to know a person to know when he's kidding). Lewis, a novelist and abstract/semi-abstract painter (the founder of England's 'Vorticist' movement) sets out to write a sort of companion piece to Machiavelli's "The Prince"-- but where "The Prince" is a manual about how to rule, Lewis' book is for the rest of us-- a sort of expose of the mechanics of mass-culture and mass-rule.

Lewis had the bad luck of being born too soon-- his observations about the feminization of culture and about the rise of virtual reality, for example, would have been hard to digest at the time they were written, but nowadays they are almost clichés. What Lewis gets at (and you'll see this especially in his book "Time and Western Man") is the modern mania for novelty and subjectivism; Lewis is coming at these ideas from the point of view of an artist rather than a politician, so the book is less political than philosophical. In fact, Lewis changed his political views over the years, so much of the book contains early stabs at the more mature views he took in later books like "Self-Condemned", "America and Cosmic Man" and the later "Childermass" novels, but "The Art of Being Ruled" is very intelligent and entertaining, not to say prescient.

I did a thesis for my BA on PWL, a seriously overlooked figure, and used this book more extensively than any other. It is a partial autobiography of the years during and around the Great War. It is an excellent example of how sharp and witty his prose could be.

This book was written in 1928, some reprints were made in 1951, and it's scarce as hen's teeth. It's a wonderful volume of all sorts of things to do with Christmas, from ancient to modern times. There's a little Scrooge in there, and the Nativity from medieval plays, and hundreds of snippets ranging from poems to meditations and commentaries. A truly wonderful book.

This is the most wonderful book about Christmas I have ever seen. It's a compilation of Christmas lore and excerpts, the Boar's Head Carol next to Chesterton's warm praise of Dickens's holy enthusiasm for the spirit of Christmas. Some are moving, some are funny, some are just glorious, and all are interesting. Very hard to find. Treasure it.

Long out of print, VERY worthwhile. A treasure trove of writings about Christmas, from miracle plays to bits from Dickens to poems to meditations. VERY fine book -- grab one when you can -- you will NEVER run out of interest in it, not even after years.

St. Philip Benizi is a leading ornament of the 13th century, and this book tells his life well. An added attraction is that the history of the origin of the Servite order--possibly begun on the day St. Philip was born--is told. The order did not obtain the definitive approval of the Church until Feb. 11, 1304--long after Philip's death. Philip was canonized by Pope Clement X on Easter Sunday, 1671, at the same time as St. Francis Borgia, St Gaetano Cajetan, St. Louis Bertand, and St. Rose of Lima. This is a well-done and very readable account of a great saint.

Lewis: "People are only friends in so much that they are of use to you." And that about says all you need to know about Wyndham Lewis, a self-promoter who included himself as one of the four "Men of 1914" (the other three: T. E. Eliot, James Joyce, Ezra Pound). Be that as it may, Lewis was a very strange, egocentric, self-destructive Modernist writer and portrait artist, and inexplicably, a ladies' man. Why anyone would devote so much time and effort to write about such a loser is equally inexplicable, but what makes Paul O'Keeffe's biography so rewarding is all the name-dropping. Lewis moved within the Bloomsbury Group in London, he visited Gertrude Stein, Ernest Hemingway, and the other American expatriates in Paris between the two world wars, and through his affair with Marjorie Firminger, came close to entering the world of Henry Miller, Anaïs Nin, and D. H. Lawrence. His love affair with Nancy Cunard, the Paris Hilton of her day, and her girlfriends Iris Tree and Sybil Hart-Davis, add spice to the book. O'Keeffe's exhaustive work becomes a bit tedious about halfway through but that probably has more to do with Lewis than with O'Keeffe. Once one realizes that Lewis is not going to change, that he has squandered talent and the potential for lifelong friendships, and that there are good reasons why he is not in the same class as the other men of 1914, one starts to lose interest in his story. With a book that covers so much territory, literary, artistically, and geographically, it was critical that the author included a comprehensive index, and here again, O'Keeffe does not fail. Two more things: first, the vignettes of Lewis's grandfather and father serving together in the US Civil War and Lewis's own time on the front lines in WWI were outstanding. Second, this book is a great lead up to a new book, Neil Pearson's "Obelisk Press, A History of Jack Kahane and the Obelisk Press," due out in February, 2008. Obelisk Press published Marjorie Firminger's saucy novels, as well as those of Henry Miller ("Tropic of Cancer"), Anaïs Nin, and D. H. Lawrence, and, of course, Wyndham Lewis.Obelisk: A History of Jack Kahane and the Obelisk Press

Every reader knows of authors who were all the rage when they were alive and publishing, only to be forgotten or relegated to obscurity upon their death, if not before. They disappear for decades or generations, admired or consulted by those few who read in specialized fields; or they are the subject of intermittent articles in this or that journal. Thanks to the Internet they can be seen shimmering, a sort of astral projection, on web sites and list-serves with spotty attendances. In these venues situated on rural roads in the republic of letters they are argued with, championed, held up as the acme of what's misbegotten, or pegged as simply typical of a period. For fans, bitter consolation lies in their man or woman being reviled, as such shrill attention does indicate that the core of the oeuvre has not ceased to be dynamic, and perhaps threatening.

Occasionally authors have risen from the dust of library shelves, which is the closest we can now get to witnessing the Phoenix. These rescued figures become the product of cottage industries, but a well-timed nod from hollywood can escalate their reputations and swell their audience. Many of the latest literary finds are those whose work means something quite particular to current audiences - at times, but not in all cases, a retro chic - comprising enthusiasts, popular authors in a position to repay literary debts, scholars who have revisited past figures in search of their postmodern `nowness,' and because of groundswells of curiosity from disparate parts. There is a lovely unpredictability in the resurgence of these artists which fosters hope in those whose favourite choice has not yet bounced back into the limelight. (In an attempt at a shove back onto the stage, see my Amazon review of Lewis' _Rude Assignment_.)

It is unlikely that Wyndham Lewis will ever again receive the attention, negative or positive, that his paintings and writings garnered during his lifetime, yet if any critical work of recent years could restore his dented reputation and, more fruitfully, bring his ideas back into view for a fresh examination, then it is this book by Paul Edwards.

In his combination of literary analysis and art criticism Edwards writes with economy, clarity, intelligence and sensitivity about Lewis' paintings, drawings, short fictions, novels and a mass of philosophically-minded and politically generated essays and speculative works. One realizes that Lewis, perhaps the most probing Modernist in the anglo-united statesian family, left no major concern of the 20th century ignored, even if only to swipe at it with pen and brush. It is to Edwards' credit that he maintains a focus on his subject's wide-ranging thoughts and positions, especially as they are transformed with the passing of time and as events, historical and personal, transform Lewis.

Certain aspects of this book call for special commendation: the examination of _Tarr_, Lewis' first novel; the analyses of _Time and Western Man_ , the central non-fiction work of Lewis' writings, and of _The Human Age_, his last fiction; and the constant engagement with the art works. Art criticism is often written in an abstract and coded way, and academic criticism is often larded with unnecessary polysyllabic constructions, but a key benefit of Edwards' style is that one can argue with his conclusions or suggested interpretations because he has made himself understood. There is no dancing with words, or playfulness in a deconstructionist sense, to obscure his points.

In the aftermath of this book it was instructive, in a disappointing way, to read a review by irish novelist John Banville of _The Crisis of Reason: European Thought, 1848-1914_, written by J.W. Burrow, which appeared in _The New York Review of Books_ (October 4, 2001, pp.38-40). On p.40 Banville responds to what Burrow says about Nietzsche:

"[...] There is a study to be made of the influence on modernism of Nietzsche's thinking, which is insufficiently acknowledged even by the most philosophically-minded of the modernists - it is hard to recall, for instance, a single mention of Nietzsche's name anywhere in Eliot's prose criticism."

Banville is mistaken when he says Nietzsche was not regarded sufficiently by "the most philosophically-minded" modernists, for as Edwards makes plain throughout his almost 600-page book (not a page too long), Lewis engaged Nietzsche in a constant debate (and dealt with many others as well). Pointing out this error on Banville's part is not meant to cast a slur against him; it merely shows how far Lewis has sunk below the critical horizon.

The book's layout is very good. In most cases, when art work is discussed the painting or drawing is at hand without needless flipping through the book. While as a rule footnotes are preferable, in this instance the use of endnotes is justified.

This book has given far greater pleasure than many others recently. For those unfamiliar with Lewis it is an excellent primer; for those just stepping into his sea of words it is an invaluable guide; and for those who are well acquainted with Lewis' concerns and motifs there is much to deliberate on, and hopefully respond to, in Edwards' original findings and his engagement with other critics.

Paul Edwards deserves more laurels than he is likely to get for writing about an artist who is underrated, over-scorned, difficult, and not very likely to experience a surge in popular appreciation. He also merits praise for writing in a direct manner, tackling the contentious aspects of Lewis' life and works head on, for his generally even-handed treatment of others who write on Lewis, and the zest underlying every sentence. His discerning enthusiasm will urge a reader to read Lewis' books again, or for a first time. Not many academics or critics achieve that notable goal.

One of the first to recognize the "bounty of god-awful" verse out there, this anthology was initially published in 1930, on the cusp of poetic modernism. The editors find that bad poetry was merely tiresome before mid-seventeenth century, where the anthology begins. It ends with Tennyson, so as not to offend living poets, and only includes distinguished poets--those who have been rewarded with reverence or royalities by their contemporaries. The editors insist that bad poetry in their anthology be grammatical and innocent of the faults of craftsmanship. Poetasters are out. The inflated, flouncy diction of Victorian poetry is their special target. The title of the work gives a taste of what bathos it contains. Written by William Wordsworth, "The Stuffed Owl" of the title is a sonnet, whose subject is the sole object comforting the ailing Miss Jewsbury. The work is arranged chronologically by author with a subject index.

These poems were chosen from American and English Literature to signify the worst in a history of pratfalls as exhibited by some of the big names. "If you glance at History's pags, in all lands and eras known, you will find the buried ages far more wicked than our own; as you scan each word and letter you will realize it more, that the world today is better than it ever was before."

Poe's "Eulalie' was chosen: "I dwelt alone in a world to moan,
And my soul was a stagnant tide,
Till the fair and gentle Eulalie became my blushing bride --
Till the yellow-haired young Eulalie became my smiling bride."

Longfellow's 'Excelsior' goes thusly: "The shades of night were falling fast, as trough an Alpine village passed
A youth, who bore, 'mid snow and ice,
A banner with the strange device, Excelsior!
...
There in the twilight cold and grey, lifeless, but beautiful, he lay, And from the sky, serene and far, A voice fell, like a falling star, Excelsior!"

"Something to love, some tree or flow'r,
Something to nurse in my lonely bow'r,
Some dog to follow, where'er I roam,
Some bird to warble my welcome home,
Some tame gazelle, or some gentle dove:
Something to love, oh, something to love!

Some to love, oh, let me see!
Something that's filled with a love for me;
Beloved by none, it is sad to live,
And 'tis sad to die and leave none to grieve;
And fond and true let the lov'e one prove.
Something to love, oh, something to love!"

'A Lesson for the Proud'

"The scheme is tried; and shall it prosper too?
Yes; what can't steam and gold united do?
Near the commencement of Victoria's reign,
Both sea-chiefs started on th' Atlantic main;
While all the merchantmen they met and pass'd,
Long looks of wonder on the heroes cast;
Their proud, majestic march, their stately air,
Their god-like prowess, and their length of car,
Made gazers all, with great reluctance, see
Their own comparative nonentity."

Wordsworth wrote: "Yet, helped by Genius -- untired Comforter,
The presence even of a stuffed Owl for her can cheat the time." The Capricorn edition has eight cartoons from the works of Max Beerbohm. There is a subject index and an author index. A bit of nonsense, but D. B. Wyndham Lewis and Charles Lee must have had fun chosing what they considered the worst of the lot. Of course, everyone has his own opinion and, what's bad for someone may be good to someone else and vice versa. That's what a reviewer if for, to cause another to think differently from what he might otherwise. But, of course, you must have an open mind.

This is not just a collection of any old bad verse. McGonagall for one is not represented. Nor are the forgotten poetasters `...the semi-literate, the nature-loving contributor to the county newspaper...the hearty but ill-equipped patriot, the pudibond but urgent Sapphos...' to take a sample of the disregarded from the anthologists' preface. The main qualifying factor for inclusion in The Stuffed Owl is solemnity. It may be that now and again Wyndham Lewis and Lee deviate slightly from this criterion, and I wonder whether in Boston churches they still sing

`Ye monsters of the bubbling deep/Your Maker's praises shout/Up from the sands, ye codlings, leap/And wag your tails about'

but a fairer sample of the `target' style would be e.g. Elizabeth Barrett Browning's

`Will you oftly/Murmur softly?' or `Our Euripides the human/With his droppings of warm tears'; or Crabbe's `Brother, there dwell, yon northern hill below,/Two favourite maidens, whom `tis good to know,/Young, but experienced'.

The very greatest can be found here at their less-than-greatest. The title of the book is itself a quotation from Wordsworth. Toweringly great poet though he was, he lacked, as everyone knows, any sense of the ridiculous whatsoever. He really did cite

`...the umbrella spread/To weather-fend the Celtic herdsman's head' as an instance of spreading decadence. One inclusion that seems to me marginal is from Resolution and Independence, the celebrated question to the old leech-gatherer, betraying that William had not been listening to a word the old fellow said

`My question eagerly did I renew/How is it that you live, and what is it you do?' Say what you like, I still find nothing absurd in it and I still think this is one of his greatest poems. How this got into The Stuffed Owl is obvious - the whole scenario was more than Lewis Carroll could take, and it inspired him to perhaps the most hilarious parody (along with Housman's Fragment of a Greek Tragedy) I have ever read, the White Knight's tale of the aged aged man a-sitting on a gate.

The funniest things in the book are not so much the poems themselves as the commentaries. These are mainly the work of Wyndham Lewis and Lee, but there is some Olympian demolition by Macaulay of a certain Robert Montgomery (1807-1855) who specialised in obsequious piety. The anthologists themselves contribute a wonderful preface, the captions over the extracts, and, maybe best of all, the index. From this you can easily access, say, `Leeds, poetical aspects of'; or `Oysters, reason why they cannot be crossed in love'; or `Trains, rapture of catching'.

How they must have enjoyed doing it all! It appeals quite inordinately to my sense of humour, and perhaps it will to yours.

This collection is much more interesting *and* funny than a more recent anthology of bad poetry, because it draws so heavily on great poets--Wordsworth, Byron, Poe et al. Laughing at semiliterate amateurs is a cheap shot. The wonder is the follies of the talented, and Stuffed Owl displays these. The introductory matter and editorial comments are also brilliantly funny, and the index--yes, the index--is a scream. THIS TITLE SHOULD BE READILY AVAILABLE (publisher please note.)

This book is a gem. It's a little hard to read from cover to cover -- kind of like a box of bitter chocolate, you come back to it again and again. The index is the ultimate scream, though.

Truly one of the funniest novels I've ever read -- THIS is the source material for the rock musical RENT, much more so than the opera is. Anyone who loves RENT should read this incredibly contemporary feeling novel about a bunch of selfish, self-involved, self-important artist friends who run roughshod over the rest of the world. Though there are serious, more emotional scenes, much of the novel is laugh-out-loud funny! It's rare that I've enjoyed a novel this much...

This is the novel upon which the play "La Boheme" was based. The novel was originally titled "Scénes de la vie de Bohéme. This book is Murger's tribute to Bohemians. He chronicles the adventures of four Bohemians as they struggle to survive in 1840s Paris. Murger seems to have created a tale based on his own adventures in Bohemia. So there is a trace of autobiography in these pages. Rudolph is the character most similiar to Murger. He is joined by his friends Schaunard, Marcel and Colline. They are all artists of one kind or another. They form a Bohemian club which is like a support group. Their lives and loves are well documented here. Murger must have felt great nostalgia for his own period of Bohemianism. It is a passionate tale that still resonates today. If you are a fan of the opera or just interested in Bohemians and French literature, this book is a pleasing read.