In the world of natural history there is a Kingdom reserved for
zoology because it is inhabited by animals.
Among the animals which so inhabit it is man.
And the zoologist may talk of man and say, for example, that man is
not a quadruped but a biped, and that he does not have the tail that
the monkey, the donkey, or the peacock has.
This "man" of which the zoologist speaks can never be so unfortunate
as to lose, let us say, a leg and replace it with a wooden one; or to
lose an eye and replace it with a glass one. The zoologist's man
always has two legs, of which neither is of wood; and always two eyes,
of which neither is of glass.
And we cannot argue with this zoologist. For if we confront him with
Mr. A. who has a wooden leg, or a glass eye, he answers that he does
not know the gentleman, because Mr. A. is not "man" but "a man."
It is true that we, in our turn, can retort to the zoologist that the
"man" he knows does not exist, but that individual men do exist, and
may even have wooden legs and glass eyes.
We may ask at this point whether certain commentators regard
themselves as zoologists or as literary critics when, in reviewing a
novel, or a short-story, or a comedy, they condemn this or that
character, this or that situation, this or that motive, not in terms
of art, as would be proper, but in terms of a humanity which they seem
to know to perfection, as though it really existed outside that
infinite variety of individuals who are in a position to commit the
above mentioned absurdities--absurdities which do not need to seem
logical and natural because they are true.
In my own experience with such criticism I have observed one curious
thing: that whereas the zoologist understands that man is
distinguished from other animals by the fact, among others, that he
can think while animals cannot, these critics regard thinking--the
trait most distinctive of mankind, that is--not, if you please, as an
excess, but rather as a downright lack of humanity in many of my not
over-cheerful characters. "Human-ity" would seem, in their view, to
reside rather in feel-ing than in reasoning.
But--if I may be permitted a generality in my turn--is it not true
that a man never thinks so hard (I don't say, so well) as when he is
unhappy and in distress, precisely because he is determined to
discover why he is unhappy, who is responsible for his being so, and
whether he deserves it all? Whereas, when he is happy, when everything
is going well with him, he does not reason at all, accepting his good
fortune as though it were his due.
It is the lot of the lower animals to suffer without thinking. But for
these critics, a man who is unhappy and thinks (thinks--because he is
unhappy) is not "human"; from which it would follow that a man cannot
suffer unless he is a beast, and that only when he is a beast can he
be "human."
* * *
But recently I have found a critic to whom I am very grateful. In
connection with the "unhuman" and it would seem incurable
"cerebrality"--|n connection with the paradoxical "implausibility"--of
my plots and my characters, he has asked such critics how they arrive
at their criteria for so judging the world of my art.
"From 'normal life,' so-called?" he asks. "But what is normal life but
a system of relationships which we select from the chaos of daily
happenings and arbitrarily call 'normal'?" And he concludes that "the
world of an artist can be judged only by criteria derived from that
world itself."
To remove any suspicion that I am praising this critic because he
praises me, I hasten to add that in spite of this view of his, in fact
because of this view of his, he is inclined to judge my work
unfavorably; for he thinks that I fail to give a universally human
value and a universally human significance to my plots and my people;
so much so, that he is not sure whether I have not deliberately
confined myself to the portrayal of certain curious individualities,
certain psychological situations of a very special, a very particular,
scope.
1102213921
zoology because it is inhabited by animals.
Among the animals which so inhabit it is man.
And the zoologist may talk of man and say, for example, that man is
not a quadruped but a biped, and that he does not have the tail that
the monkey, the donkey, or the peacock has.
This "man" of which the zoologist speaks can never be so unfortunate
as to lose, let us say, a leg and replace it with a wooden one; or to
lose an eye and replace it with a glass one. The zoologist's man
always has two legs, of which neither is of wood; and always two eyes,
of which neither is of glass.
And we cannot argue with this zoologist. For if we confront him with
Mr. A. who has a wooden leg, or a glass eye, he answers that he does
not know the gentleman, because Mr. A. is not "man" but "a man."
It is true that we, in our turn, can retort to the zoologist that the
"man" he knows does not exist, but that individual men do exist, and
may even have wooden legs and glass eyes.
We may ask at this point whether certain commentators regard
themselves as zoologists or as literary critics when, in reviewing a
novel, or a short-story, or a comedy, they condemn this or that
character, this or that situation, this or that motive, not in terms
of art, as would be proper, but in terms of a humanity which they seem
to know to perfection, as though it really existed outside that
infinite variety of individuals who are in a position to commit the
above mentioned absurdities--absurdities which do not need to seem
logical and natural because they are true.
In my own experience with such criticism I have observed one curious
thing: that whereas the zoologist understands that man is
distinguished from other animals by the fact, among others, that he
can think while animals cannot, these critics regard thinking--the
trait most distinctive of mankind, that is--not, if you please, as an
excess, but rather as a downright lack of humanity in many of my not
over-cheerful characters. "Human-ity" would seem, in their view, to
reside rather in feel-ing than in reasoning.
But--if I may be permitted a generality in my turn--is it not true
that a man never thinks so hard (I don't say, so well) as when he is
unhappy and in distress, precisely because he is determined to
discover why he is unhappy, who is responsible for his being so, and
whether he deserves it all? Whereas, when he is happy, when everything
is going well with him, he does not reason at all, accepting his good
fortune as though it were his due.
It is the lot of the lower animals to suffer without thinking. But for
these critics, a man who is unhappy and thinks (thinks--because he is
unhappy) is not "human"; from which it would follow that a man cannot
suffer unless he is a beast, and that only when he is a beast can he
be "human."
* * *
But recently I have found a critic to whom I am very grateful. In
connection with the "unhuman" and it would seem incurable
"cerebrality"--|n connection with the paradoxical "implausibility"--of
my plots and my characters, he has asked such critics how they arrive
at their criteria for so judging the world of my art.
"From 'normal life,' so-called?" he asks. "But what is normal life but
a system of relationships which we select from the chaos of daily
happenings and arbitrarily call 'normal'?" And he concludes that "the
world of an artist can be judged only by criteria derived from that
world itself."
To remove any suspicion that I am praising this critic because he
praises me, I hasten to add that in spite of this view of his, in fact
because of this view of his, he is inclined to judge my work
unfavorably; for he thinks that I fail to give a universally human
value and a universally human significance to my plots and my people;
so much so, that he is not sure whether I have not deliberately
confined myself to the portrayal of certain curious individualities,
certain psychological situations of a very special, a very particular,
scope.
The Late Mattia Pascal
In the world of natural history there is a Kingdom reserved for
zoology because it is inhabited by animals.
Among the animals which so inhabit it is man.
And the zoologist may talk of man and say, for example, that man is
not a quadruped but a biped, and that he does not have the tail that
the monkey, the donkey, or the peacock has.
This "man" of which the zoologist speaks can never be so unfortunate
as to lose, let us say, a leg and replace it with a wooden one; or to
lose an eye and replace it with a glass one. The zoologist's man
always has two legs, of which neither is of wood; and always two eyes,
of which neither is of glass.
And we cannot argue with this zoologist. For if we confront him with
Mr. A. who has a wooden leg, or a glass eye, he answers that he does
not know the gentleman, because Mr. A. is not "man" but "a man."
It is true that we, in our turn, can retort to the zoologist that the
"man" he knows does not exist, but that individual men do exist, and
may even have wooden legs and glass eyes.
We may ask at this point whether certain commentators regard
themselves as zoologists or as literary critics when, in reviewing a
novel, or a short-story, or a comedy, they condemn this or that
character, this or that situation, this or that motive, not in terms
of art, as would be proper, but in terms of a humanity which they seem
to know to perfection, as though it really existed outside that
infinite variety of individuals who are in a position to commit the
above mentioned absurdities--absurdities which do not need to seem
logical and natural because they are true.
In my own experience with such criticism I have observed one curious
thing: that whereas the zoologist understands that man is
distinguished from other animals by the fact, among others, that he
can think while animals cannot, these critics regard thinking--the
trait most distinctive of mankind, that is--not, if you please, as an
excess, but rather as a downright lack of humanity in many of my not
over-cheerful characters. "Human-ity" would seem, in their view, to
reside rather in feel-ing than in reasoning.
But--if I may be permitted a generality in my turn--is it not true
that a man never thinks so hard (I don't say, so well) as when he is
unhappy and in distress, precisely because he is determined to
discover why he is unhappy, who is responsible for his being so, and
whether he deserves it all? Whereas, when he is happy, when everything
is going well with him, he does not reason at all, accepting his good
fortune as though it were his due.
It is the lot of the lower animals to suffer without thinking. But for
these critics, a man who is unhappy and thinks (thinks--because he is
unhappy) is not "human"; from which it would follow that a man cannot
suffer unless he is a beast, and that only when he is a beast can he
be "human."
* * *
But recently I have found a critic to whom I am very grateful. In
connection with the "unhuman" and it would seem incurable
"cerebrality"--|n connection with the paradoxical "implausibility"--of
my plots and my characters, he has asked such critics how they arrive
at their criteria for so judging the world of my art.
"From 'normal life,' so-called?" he asks. "But what is normal life but
a system of relationships which we select from the chaos of daily
happenings and arbitrarily call 'normal'?" And he concludes that "the
world of an artist can be judged only by criteria derived from that
world itself."
To remove any suspicion that I am praising this critic because he
praises me, I hasten to add that in spite of this view of his, in fact
because of this view of his, he is inclined to judge my work
unfavorably; for he thinks that I fail to give a universally human
value and a universally human significance to my plots and my people;
so much so, that he is not sure whether I have not deliberately
confined myself to the portrayal of certain curious individualities,
certain psychological situations of a very special, a very particular,
scope.
zoology because it is inhabited by animals.
Among the animals which so inhabit it is man.
And the zoologist may talk of man and say, for example, that man is
not a quadruped but a biped, and that he does not have the tail that
the monkey, the donkey, or the peacock has.
This "man" of which the zoologist speaks can never be so unfortunate
as to lose, let us say, a leg and replace it with a wooden one; or to
lose an eye and replace it with a glass one. The zoologist's man
always has two legs, of which neither is of wood; and always two eyes,
of which neither is of glass.
And we cannot argue with this zoologist. For if we confront him with
Mr. A. who has a wooden leg, or a glass eye, he answers that he does
not know the gentleman, because Mr. A. is not "man" but "a man."
It is true that we, in our turn, can retort to the zoologist that the
"man" he knows does not exist, but that individual men do exist, and
may even have wooden legs and glass eyes.
We may ask at this point whether certain commentators regard
themselves as zoologists or as literary critics when, in reviewing a
novel, or a short-story, or a comedy, they condemn this or that
character, this or that situation, this or that motive, not in terms
of art, as would be proper, but in terms of a humanity which they seem
to know to perfection, as though it really existed outside that
infinite variety of individuals who are in a position to commit the
above mentioned absurdities--absurdities which do not need to seem
logical and natural because they are true.
In my own experience with such criticism I have observed one curious
thing: that whereas the zoologist understands that man is
distinguished from other animals by the fact, among others, that he
can think while animals cannot, these critics regard thinking--the
trait most distinctive of mankind, that is--not, if you please, as an
excess, but rather as a downright lack of humanity in many of my not
over-cheerful characters. "Human-ity" would seem, in their view, to
reside rather in feel-ing than in reasoning.
But--if I may be permitted a generality in my turn--is it not true
that a man never thinks so hard (I don't say, so well) as when he is
unhappy and in distress, precisely because he is determined to
discover why he is unhappy, who is responsible for his being so, and
whether he deserves it all? Whereas, when he is happy, when everything
is going well with him, he does not reason at all, accepting his good
fortune as though it were his due.
It is the lot of the lower animals to suffer without thinking. But for
these critics, a man who is unhappy and thinks (thinks--because he is
unhappy) is not "human"; from which it would follow that a man cannot
suffer unless he is a beast, and that only when he is a beast can he
be "human."
* * *
But recently I have found a critic to whom I am very grateful. In
connection with the "unhuman" and it would seem incurable
"cerebrality"--|n connection with the paradoxical "implausibility"--of
my plots and my characters, he has asked such critics how they arrive
at their criteria for so judging the world of my art.
"From 'normal life,' so-called?" he asks. "But what is normal life but
a system of relationships which we select from the chaos of daily
happenings and arbitrarily call 'normal'?" And he concludes that "the
world of an artist can be judged only by criteria derived from that
world itself."
To remove any suspicion that I am praising this critic because he
praises me, I hasten to add that in spite of this view of his, in fact
because of this view of his, he is inclined to judge my work
unfavorably; for he thinks that I fail to give a universally human
value and a universally human significance to my plots and my people;
so much so, that he is not sure whether I have not deliberately
confined myself to the portrayal of certain curious individualities,
certain psychological situations of a very special, a very particular,
scope.
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The Late Mattia Pascal
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Product Details
| BN ID: | 2940013762978 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | WDS Publishing |
| Publication date: | 01/15/2012 |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| File size: | 251 KB |
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