Prophecy

WITH prophecy in the narrow sense of foretelling the future we have no concern, and we have not much concern with it as an appeal for righteousness. What will interest us today—what we must respond to, for interest now becomes an inappropriate word—is an accent in the novelist's voice, an accent for which the flutes and saxophones of fantasy may have prepared us. His theme is the universe, or something universal, but he is not necessarily going to "say" anything about the universe; he proposes to sing, and the strangeness of song arising in the halls of fiction is bound to give us a shock. How will song combine with the furniture of common sense? we shall ask ourselves, and shall have to answer "not too well": the singer does not always have room for his gestures, the tables and chairs get broken, and the novel through which bardic influence has passed often has a wrecked air, like a drawing-room after an earthquake or a children's party. Readers of D. H. Lawrence will understand what I mean.

We are not concerned with prophecy in the narrow sense of predicting the future. Nor are we much concerned with prophecy as a call to righteousness. What matters today is a particular tone in the novelist's voice. We must respond to that tone, for mere interest is no longer the right word. The flutes and saxophones of fantasy may have prepared us for it. The novelist's theme is the universe, or something universal. But he is not necessarily going to "say" anything about the universe. He intends to sing, and the strangeness of song rising in the halls of fiction is bound to shock us. How will song fit in with the furniture of common sense? We shall have to answer "not too well". The singer does not always have room for his gestures, and the tables and chairs get broken. A novel touched by a bard's influence often looks wrecked, like a drawing room after an earthquake or a children's party. Readers of D. H. Lawrence will understand what I mean.

Prophecy—in our sense—is a tone of voice. It may imply any of the faiths that have haunted humanity—Christianity, Buddhism, dualism, Satanism, or the mere raising of human love and hatred to such a power that their normal receptacles no longer contain them: but what particular view of the universe is recommended—with that we are not directly concerned. It is the implication that signifies and will filter into the turns of the novelist's phrase, and in this lecture, which promises to be so vague and grandiose, we may come nearer than elsewhere to the minutiae of style. We shall have to attend to the novelist's state of mind and to the actual words he uses; we shall neglect as far as we can the problems of common sense. As far as we can: for all novels contain tables and chairs, and most readers of fiction look for them first. Before we condemn him for affectation and distortion we must realize his view point. He is not looking at the tables and chairs at all, and that is why they are out of focus. We only see what he does not focus—not what he does—and in our blindness we laugh at him.

Prophecy, as we mean it here, is a tone of voice. It may suggest any of the faiths that have haunted humanity: Christianity, Buddhism, dualism, Satanism. Or it may simply raise human love and hatred beyond what normally contains them. But we are not directly concerned with the particular view of the universe being promoted. What matters is the underlying meaning, which will find its way into the novelist’s phrasing. This lecture promises to be vague and grandiose. Yet here we may come closer than elsewhere to the smallest details of style. We will have to consider the novelist’s state of mind and the actual words he uses. We will ignore questions of common sense as far as we can. Only as far as we can, because all novels contain tables and chairs, and most fiction readers look for those first. Before we condemn the novelist for being affected and distorting things, we must understand his point of view. He is not looking at the tables and chairs at all, and that is why those objects are out of focus. We see only what he leaves out of focus, not what he brings into focus. And in our blindness, we laugh at him.

I have said that each aspect of the novel demands a different quality in the reader. Well, the prophetic aspect demands two qualities: humility and the suspension of the sense of humour. Humility is a quality for which I have only a limited admiration. In many phases of life it is a great mistake and degenerates into defensiveness or hypocrisy. But humility is in place just now. Without its help we shall not hear the voice of the prophet, and our eyes will behold a figure of fun instead of his glory. And the sense of humour—that is out of place: that estimable adjunct of the educated man must be laid aside. Like the schoolchildren in the Bible, one cannot help laughing at a prophet—his bald head is so absurd—but one can discount the laughter and realize that it has no critical value and is merely food for bears.

I have said that each aspect of the novel calls for a different quality in the reader. Well, the prophetic aspect calls for two qualities: humility and setting aside your sense of humour. I have only limited admiration for humility. In many areas of life, humility is a great mistake and turns into defensiveness or hypocrisy. But humility is appropriate here. Without humility, we will not hear the prophet’s voice. Instead of seeing his glory, we will see a ridiculous figure. And a sense of humour is out of place here. That valued companion of an educated person must be set aside. Like the schoolchildren in the Bible, we cannot help laughing at a prophet because his bald head is so absurd. But we can dismiss our laughter and recognize that it has no value as criticism. Our laughter is merely food for bears.

Let us distinguish between the prophet and the non-prophet.

Let’s distinguish between the prophet and the non-prophet.

There were two novelists, who were both brought up in Christianity. They speculated and broke away, yet they neither left nor did they want to leave the Christian spirit which they interpreted as a loving spirit. They both held that sin is always punished, and punishment a purgation, and they saw this process not with the detachment of an ancient Greek or a modern Hindu, but with tears in their eyes. Pity, they felt, is the atmosphere in which morality exercises its logic, a logic which otherwise is crude and meaningless. What is the use of a sinner being punished and cured if there is not an addition in the cure, a heavenly bonus? And where does the addition come from? Not out of the machinery, but out of the atmosphere in which the process occurs, out of the love and pity which (they believed) are attributes of God.

There were two novelists who were both raised as Christians. They questioned their faith and broke away. Yet neither left, or wanted to leave, the Christian spirit, which they understood as a spirit of love. Both believed that sin is always punished and that punishment cleanses the sinner. They saw this process with tears in their eyes, not with the detachment of an ancient Greek or a modern Hindu. They felt that pity is the atmosphere in which morality works out its logic. Without pity, that logic is crude and meaningless. What good is punishing and curing a sinner if the cure brings nothing extra, no heavenly bonus? And where does that extra gift come from? Not from the machinery, but from the atmosphere in which the process takes place. It comes from the love and pity that, they believed, are qualities of God.

How similar these two novelists must have been! Yet one of them was George Eliot and the other Dostoevsky.

These two novelists must have been so similar! Yet one was George Eliot and the other was Dostoevsky.

It will be said that Dostoevsky had vision. Still, so had George Eliot. To classify them apart—and they must be parted—is not so easy. But the difference between them will define itself at once exactly if I read two passages from their works. To the classifier the passages will seem similar: to any one who has an ear for song they come out of different worlds.

People will say that Dostoevsky had vision. Still, so did George Eliot. Putting them in separate categories is not so easy. Yet they must be separated. But the difference between them will become immediately clear and precise if I read two passages from their works. To someone classifying the passages, the two will seem similar. To anyone with an ear for song, the passages come from different worlds.

I will begin with a passage—fifty years ago it was a very famous passage—out of Adam Bede. Hetty is in prison, condemned to die for the murder of her illegitimate child. She will not confess, she is hard and impenitent. Dinah, the Methodist, comes to visit her and tries to touch her heart.

I will begin with a passage from Adam Bede. Fifty years ago, this passage was very famous. Hetty is in prison, sentenced to death for murdering her child, who was born outside marriage. She refuses to confess and remains hardened and unrepentant. Dinah, the Methodist, comes to visit her and tries to touch her heart.

I have not done justice to this scene, because I have had to cut it, and it is on her massiveness that George Eliot depends—she has no nicety of style. The scene is sincere, solid, pathetic, and penetrated with Christianity. The god whom Dinah summons is a living force to the authoress also: he is not brought in to work up the reader's feelings; he is the natural accompaniment of human error and suffering.

I have not done this scene justice because I have had to shorten it. George Eliot relies on the sheer weight of her writing. Her style has no finesse. The scene is sincere, solid, moving, and deeply Christian. The god Dinah calls upon is a living force for the author too. He is not introduced to stir up the reader's feelings. He is the natural companion of human error and suffering.

Now contrast with it the following scene from The Brothers Karamazov (Mitya is being accused of the murder of his father, of which he is indeed spiritually though not technically guilty).

Now contrast it with the following scene from The Brothers Karamazov. (Mitya is accused of murdering his father. He is indeed spiritually guilty of the murder, though not technically guilty.)

Now what is the difference in these passages—a difference that throbs in every phrase? It is that the first writer is a preacher, and the second a prophet. George Eliot talks about God, but never alters her focus; God and the tables and chairs are all in the same plane, and in consequence we have not for a moment the feeling that the whole universe needs pity and love—they are only needed in Hetty's cell. In Dostoevsky the characters and situations always stand for more than themselves; infinity attends them; though yet they remain individuals they expand to embrace it and summon it to embrace them; one can apply to them the saying of St. Catherine of Siena that God is in the soul and the soul is in God as the sea is in the fish and the fish is in the sea. Every sentence he writes implies this extension, and the implication is the dominant aspect of his work. He is a great novelist in the ordinary sense—that is to say his characters have relation to ordinary life and also live in their own surroundings, there are incidents which keep us excited, and so on; he has also the greatness of a prophet, to which our ordinary standards are inapplicable.

Now what is the difference between these passages, a difference that pulses through every phrase? The first writer is a preacher, and the second is a prophet. George Eliot talks about God, but never shifts her focus. God and the tables and chairs are all on the same level. As a result, we never feel for a moment that the whole universe needs pity and love. Pity and love are needed only in Hetty's cell. In Dostoevsky, the characters and situations always stand for more than themselves. Infinity surrounds them. Though the characters remain individuals, they expand to embrace infinity and call on infinity to embrace them. St. Catherine of Siena's saying applies to them: God is in the soul and the soul is in God, as the sea is in the fish and the fish is in the sea. Every sentence Dostoevsky writes suggests this reach into infinity, and that suggestion is the dominant feature of his work. He is a great novelist in the ordinary sense. That is, his characters connect with ordinary life and also live within their own surroundings. Events keep us excited, and so on. But he also has the greatness of a prophet, and our ordinary standards do not apply to that greatness.

That is the gulf between Hetty and Mitya, though they inhabit the same moral and mythological worlds. Hetty, taken by herself, is quite adequate. She is a poor girl, brought to confess her crime, and so to a better frame of mind. But Mitya, taken by himself, is not adequate. He only becomes real through what he implies, his mind is not in a frame at all. Taken by himself he seems distorted out of drawing, intermittent; we begin explaining him away and saying he was disproportionately grateful for the pillow because he was overwrought—very like a Russian in fact. We cannot understand him until we see that he extends, and that the part of him on which Dostoevsky focused did not lie on that wooden chest or even in dreamland but in a region where it could be joined by the rest of humanity. Mitya is—all of us. So is Alyosha, so is Smerdyakov. He is the prophetic vision, and the novelist's creation also. He does not become all of us here: he is Mitya here as Hetty is Hetty. The extension, the melting, the unity through love and pity occur in a region which can only be implied and to which fiction is perhaps the wrong approach. The world of the Karamazovs and Myshkin and Raskolnikov, the world of Moby Dick which we shall enter shortly, it is not a veil, it is not an allegory. It is the ordinary world of fiction, but it reaches back. And that tiny humorous figure of Lady Bertram whom we considered some time ago—Lady Bertram sitting on her sofa with pug—may assist us in these deeper matters. Lady Bertram, we decided, was a flat character, capable of extending into a round when the action required it. Mitya is a round character, but he is capable of extension. He does not conceal anything (mysticism), he does not mean anything (symbolism), he is merely Dmitri Karamazov, but to be merely a person in Dostoevsky is to join up with all the other people far back. Consequently the tremendous current suddenly flows—for me in those closing words: "I've had a good dream, gentlemen." Have I had that good dream too? No, Dostoevsky's characters ask us to share something deeper than their experiences. They convey to us a sensation that is partly physical—the sensation of sinking into a translucent globe and seeing our experience floating far above us on its surface, tiny, remote, yet ours. We have not ceased to be people, we have given nothing up, but "the sea is in the fish and the fish is in the sea."

That is the gulf between Hetty and Mitya, though they live in the same moral and mythological worlds. Hetty, considered on her own, is quite convincing. She is a poor girl who is brought to confess her crime, and so reaches a better state of mind. But Mitya, considered on his own, is not convincing. He becomes real only through what he suggests beyond himself. His mind fits into no frame at all. Seen on his own, he seems badly drawn, distorted, and inconsistent. We begin explaining him away. We say he was so grateful for the pillow because he was overwrought. Very like a Russian, in fact. We cannot understand him until we see that he extends beyond himself. The part of him Dostoevsky focused on did not lie on that wooden chest, or even in dreamland. It lay in a region where the rest of humanity could join it. Mitya is all of us. So is Alyosha, and so is Smerdyakov. He is both the prophetic vision and the novelist's creation. He does not become all of us here. Here he is Mitya, just as Hetty is Hetty. The reaching beyond, the merging, the unity through love and pity happen in a region that can only be suggested. Fiction is perhaps the wrong way to approach that region. The world of the Karamazovs and Myshkin and Raskolnikov is not a veil or an allegory. Neither is the world of Moby Dick, which we shall enter shortly. It is the ordinary world of fiction, but it reaches back. And that small, comic figure of Lady Bertram, whom we considered earlier, may help us with these deeper matters. Lady Bertram sits on her sofa with her pug. We decided that Lady Bertram was a flat character who could expand into a round character when the action required it. Mitya is a round character, but he too can extend beyond himself. He conceals nothing (mysticism), and he stands for nothing (symbolism). He is simply Dmitri Karamazov. But being simply a person in Dostoevsky means joining all the other people in that deeper region. As a result, a tremendous current suddenly flows. For me, it flows in those closing words: "I've had a good dream, gentlemen." Have I had that good dream too? No, Dostoevsky's characters ask us to share something deeper than their experiences. They give us a sensation that is partly physical. It feels like sinking into a translucent globe and seeing our experience floating far above us on its surface. Our experience is tiny and distant, yet still ours. We have not stopped being people, and we have given nothing up. But "the sea is in the fish and the fish is in the sea."

There we touch the limit of our subject. We are not concerned with the prophet's message, or rather (since matter and manner cannot be wholly separated) we are concerned with it as little as possible. What matters is the accent of his voice, his song. Hetty might have a good dream in prison, and it would be true of her, satisfyingly true, but it would stop short. Dinah would say she was glad, Hetty would recount her dream, which, unlike Mitya's, would be logically connected with the crisis, and George Eliot would say something sound and sympathetic about good dreams generally, and their inexplicably helpful effect on the tortured breast. Just the same and absolutely different are the two scenes, the two books, the two writers.

Here we reach the limits of our subject. We are not concerned with the prophet’s message. Or rather, since content and style cannot be fully separated, we are concerned with his message as little as possible. What matters is the tone of his voice, his song. Hetty might have a good dream in prison, and the dream would feel true to her character, satisfyingly true. But the dream would go no further. Dinah would say she was glad. Hetty would describe her dream, and unlike Mitya’s dream, Hetty’s would be logically connected to the crisis. George Eliot would offer some sensible, sympathetic thoughts about good dreams in general. She would reflect on how such dreams inexplicably help a tormented heart. The two scenes, the two books, the two writers are just the same and absolutely different.

Now another point appears. Regarded merely as a novelist the prophet has certain uncanny advantages, so that it is sometimes worth letting him into a drawing-room even on the furniture's account. Perhaps he will smash or distort, but perhaps he will illumine. As I said of the fantasist, he manipulates a beam of light which occasionally touches the objects so sedulously dusted by the hand of common sense, and renders them more vivid than they can ever be in domesticity. This intermittent realism pervades all the greater works of Dostoevsky and Herman Melville. Dostoevsky can be patiently accurate about a trial or the appearance of a staircase. Melville can catalogue the products of the whale ("I have ever found the plain things the knottiest of all," he remarks). D. H. Lawrence can describe a field of grass and flowers or the entrance into Fremantle. Little things in the foreground seem to be all that the prophet cares about at moments—he sits down with them so quiet and busy like a child between two romps. What does he feel during these intermittencies? Is it another form of excitement, or is he resting? We cannot know. No doubt it is what A.E. feels when he is doing his creameries, or what Claudel feels when he is doing his diplomacy, but what is that? Anyhow, it characterizes these novels and gives them what is always provocative in a work of art: roughness of surface. While they pass under our eyes they are full of dents and grooves and lumps and spikes which draw from us little cries of approval and disapproval. When they have past, the roughness is forgotten, they become as smooth as the moon.

Now another point comes up. Seen simply as a novelist, the prophet has certain uncanny advantages. So sometimes he is worth admitting to a drawing room, even for the furniture’s sake. Perhaps he will smash or distort, but perhaps he will cast light on things. As I said of the writer of fantasy, he directs a beam of light. Sometimes the beam touches objects so carefully dusted by the hand of common sense. It makes those objects more vivid than they can ever be in everyday domestic life. This occasional realism runs through all the greater works of Dostoevsky and Herman Melville. Dostoevsky can be patiently accurate about a trial or the appearance of a staircase. Melville can list the products of the whale ("I have ever found the plain things the knottiest of all," he remarks). D. H. Lawrence can describe a field of grass and flowers or the approach into Fremantle. At moments, small things in the foreground seem to be all the prophet cares about. He settles down with them, quiet and busy like a child between two bouts of romping. What does he feel during these intervals? Is it another kind of excitement, or is he resting? We cannot know. No doubt he feels what A.E. feels when working on his creameries, or Claudel when doing his diplomatic work. But what is that feeling? Anyway, these moments distinguish these novels and give them something always provocative in a work of art: a rough surface. As the novels pass before our eyes, they are full of dents and grooves and lumps and spikes. These draw little cries of approval and disapproval from us. Once the novels have passed, we forget their roughness, and they become as smooth as the moon.

Prophetic fiction, then, seems to have definite characteristics. It demands humility and the absence of the sense of humour. It reaches back—though we must not conclude from the example of Dostoevsky that it always reaches back to pity and love. It is spasmodically realistic. And it gives us the sensation of a song or of sound. It is unlike fantasy because its face is towards unity, whereas fantasy glances about. Its confusion is incidental, whereas fantasy's is fundamental—Tristram Shandy ought to be a muddle, Zuleika Dobson ought to keep changing mythologies. Also the prophet—one imagines—has gone "off" more completely than the fantasist, he is in a remoter emotional state while he composes. Not many novelists have this aspect. Poe is too incidental. Hawthorne potters too anxiously round the problem of individual salvation to get free. Hardy, a philosopher and a great poet, might seem to have claims, but Hardy's novels are surveys, they do not give out sounds. The writer sits back, it is true, but the characters do not reach back. He shows them to us as they let their arms rise and fall in the air; they may parallel our sufferings but can never extend them—never, I mean, could Jude step forward like Mitya and release floods of our emotion by saying "Gentlemen, I've had a bad dream." Conrad is in a rather similar position. The voice, the voice of Marlow, is too full of experiences to sing, it is dulled by many reminiscences of error and beauty, its owner has seen too much to see beyond cause and effect. To have a philosophy—even a poetic and emotional philosophy like Hardy's and Conrad's—leads to reflections on life and things. A prophet does not reflect. And he does not hammer away. That is why we exclude Joyce. Joyce has many qualities akin to prophecy and he has shown (especially in the Portrait of the Artist) an imaginative grasp of evil. But he undermines the universe in too workmanlike a manner, looking round for this tool or that: in spite of all his internal looseness he is too tight, he is never vague except after due deliberation; it is talk, talk, never song.

Prophetic fiction, then, seems to have definite characteristics. It demands humility and no sense of humour. It reaches back, though Dostoevsky’s example must not lead us to think it always reaches back to pity and love. It is realistic in bursts. And it gives us the sensation of song or sound. It differs from fantasy because it looks towards unity, while fantasy looks in many directions. Its confusion is incidental, while fantasy’s confusion is fundamental. Tristram Shandy ought to be a muddle. Zuleika Dobson ought to keep changing mythologies. Also, the prophetic writer, one imagines, has gone "off" more completely than the fantasy writer. The prophetic writer is in a more remote emotional state while writing. Not many novelists have this quality. Poe is too concerned with the incidental. Hawthorne fusses too anxiously over the problem of individual salvation to break free. Hardy, a philosopher and a great poet, might seem to qualify. But Hardy’s novels are surveys. They do not give out sounds. The writer does stand back, but the characters do not reach back. He shows us his characters as they let their arms rise and fall in the air. Their suffering may run parallel to ours, but can never extend it. I mean that Jude could never step forward like Mitya and release a flood of our emotions by saying "Gentlemen, I've had a bad dream." Conrad is in a rather similar position. Marlow’s voice is too full of experiences to sing. So many memories of error and beauty have dulled his voice. Marlow has seen too much to see beyond cause and effect. Having a philosophy leads to reflections on life and things, even a poetic and emotional philosophy like Hardy’s and Conrad’s. A prophet does not reflect. And he does not hammer away. That is why we exclude Joyce. Joyce has many qualities close to prophecy. He has also shown an imaginative grasp of evil, especially in Portrait of the Artist. But he undermines the universe too methodically, looking around for one tool or another. Despite all his internal looseness, he is too tightly controlled. He is never vague except after careful deliberation. It is talk, talk, never song.

So, though I believe this lecture is on a genuine aspect of the novel, not a fake aspect, I can only think of four writers to illustrate it—Dostoevsky, Melville, D. H. Lawrence and Emily Brontë. Emily Brontë shall be left to the last, Dostoevsky I have alluded to, Melville is the centre of our picture, and the centre of Melville is Moby Dick.

So, although I believe this lecture concerns a genuine aspect of the novel, not a fake one, examples are scarce. I can think of only four writers to illustrate this aspect: Dostoevsky, Melville, D. H. Lawrence and Emily Brontë. I will leave Emily Brontë until last. I have already touched on Dostoevsky. Melville is at the centre of our picture, and Moby Dick is at the centre of Melville.

Moby Dick is an easy book, as long as we read it as a yarn or an account of whaling interspersed with snatches of poetry. But as soon as we catch the song in it, it grows difficult and immensely important. Narrowed and hardened into words the spiritual theme of Moby Dick is as follows: a battle against evil conducted too long or in the wrong way. The White Whale is evil, and Captain Ahab is warped by constant pursuit until his knight-errantry turns into revenge. These are words—a symbol for the book if we want one—but they do not carry us much further than the acceptance of the book as a yarn—perhaps they carry us backwards, for they may mislead us into harmonizing the incidents, and so losing their roughness and richness. The idea of a contest we may retain: all action is a battle, the only happiness is peace. But contest between what? We get false if we say that it is between good and evil or between two unreconciled evils. The essential in Moby Dick, its prophetic song, flows athwart the action and the surface morality like an undercurrent. It lies outside words. Even at the end, when the ship has gone down with the bird of heaven pinned to its mast, and the empty coffin, bouncing up from the vortex, has carried Ishmael back to the world—even then we cannot catch the words of the song. There has been stress, with intervals: but no explicable solution, certainly no reaching back into universal pity and love; no "Gentlemen, I've had a good dream."

Moby Dick is an easy book, as long as we read it as an adventure story or an account of whaling with bits of poetry. But as soon as we hear the song within the book, it becomes difficult and immensely important. Reduced to the limits and rigidity of words, the spiritual theme of Moby Dick is this: a battle against evil fought too long or in the wrong way. The White Whale is evil. Captain Ahab is twisted by his constant pursuit until his knightly quest becomes revenge. These are only words, a symbol for the book if we want one. But these words take us little further than reading the book as an adventure story. Perhaps they take us backward. They may mislead us into making the events fit together neatly, losing their roughness and richness. We may keep the idea of a struggle: all action is a battle, the only happiness is peace. But a struggle between what? We misrepresent the book if we say the struggle is between good and evil, or between two evils that cannot be reconciled. The essential quality of Moby Dick, its prophetic song, flows like an undercurrent across the action and the surface morality. The song lies beyond words. Even at the end, we cannot make out the words of the song. The ship has sunk with the bird of heaven pinned to its mast. The empty coffin has bounced up from the whirlpool and carried Ishmael back to the world. Even then, we cannot make out the song’s words. There has been tension, with pauses, but no solution we can explain. Certainly there has been no return to universal pity and love, no "Gentlemen, I've had a good dream."

The extraordinary nature of the book appears in two of its early incidents—the sermon about Jonah and the friendship with Queequeg.

Two early events show how extraordinary the book is: the sermon about Jonah and the friendship with Queequeg.

The sermon has nothing to do with Christianity. It asks for endurance or loyalty without hope of reward. The preacher "kneeling in the pulpit's bows, folded his large brown hands across his chest, uplifted his closed eyes, and offered a prayer so deeply devout that he seemed kneeling and praying at the bottom of the sea." Then he works up and up and concludes on a note of joy that is far more terrifying than a menace.

The sermon has nothing to do with Christianity. It calls for endurance or loyalty without hope of reward. The preacher "knelt in the pulpit's bow and folded his large brown hands across his chest. He raised his closed eyes and offered a prayer so deeply devout that he seemed to be kneeling and praying at the bottom of the sea." Then his intensity builds and builds. He ends on a note of joy far more terrifying than a threat.

I believe it is not a coincidence that the last ship we encounter at the end of the book before the final catastrophe should be called the Delight; a vessel of ill omen who has herself encountered Moby Dick and been shattered by him. But what the connection was in the prophet's mind I cannot say, nor could he tell us.

I believe it is no coincidence that the last ship we encounter near the book’s end is called the Delight. We encounter her just before the final catastrophe. She is a ship of ill omen, having herself encountered Moby Dick and been shattered by him. But I cannot say what the connection was in the prophet’s mind, nor could he tell us.

Immediately after the sermon, Ishmael makes a passionate alliance with the cannibal Queequeg, and it looks for a moment that the book is to be a saga of blood-brotherhood. But human relationships mean little to Melville, and after a grotesque and violent entry, Queequeg is almost forgotten. Almost—not quite. Towards the end he falls ill and a coffin is made for him which he does not occupy, as he recovers. It is this coffin, serving as a life-buoy, that saves Ishmael from the final whirlpool, and this again is no coincidence, but an unformulated connection that sprang up in Melville's mind. Moby Dick is full of meanings: its meaning is a different problem. It is wrong to turn the Delight or the coffin into symbols, because even if the symbolism is correct, it silences the book. Nothing can be stated about Moby Dick except that it is a contest. The rest is song.

Immediately after the sermon, Ishmael forms a passionate bond with the cannibal Queequeg. For a moment, the book seems set to become a saga of blood-brotherhood. But human relationships mean little to Melville. After a grotesque and violent entrance, Queequeg is almost forgotten. Almost, but not quite. Near the end, Queequeg falls ill, and a coffin is made for him. He never occupies the coffin, because he recovers. Used as a life buoy, the coffin saves Ishmael from the final whirlpool. Again, this is no coincidence, but a connection that arose in Melville's mind without being clearly worked out. Moby Dick is full of meanings: what the book means is a different question. It is wrong to turn the Delight or the coffin into symbols. Even if the symbolism is correct, it silences the book. Nothing can be said about Moby Dick except that it is a contest. The rest is song.

It is to his conception of evil that Melville's work owes much of its strength. As a rule evil has been feebly envisaged in fiction, which seldom soars above misconduct or avoids the clouds of mysteriousness. Evil to most novelists is either sexual and social or is something very vague for which a special style with implications of poetry is thought suitable. They want it to exist, in order that it may kindly help them on with the plot, and evil, not being kind, generally hampers them with a villain—a Lovelace or Uriah Heep, who does more harm to the author than to the fellow characters. For a real villain we must turn to a story of Melville's called Billy Budd.⁷

Melville’s work owes much of its strength to his understanding of evil. As a rule, fiction has imagined evil weakly, seldom rising above bad behavior or escaping a cloud of mystery. For most novelists, evil is either sexual and social, or something very vague. For this vague evil, they consider a special style with hints of poetry appropriate. Novelists want evil to exist so that it may kindly help move their plots along. But evil is not kind, and generally gets in their way by giving them a villain. Such a villain, a Lovelace or Uriah Heep, does more harm to the author than to the other characters. For a real villain, we must turn to Melville’s story Billy Budd.⁷

It is a short story, but must be mentioned because of the light it throws on his other work. The scene is on a British man-of-war soon after the Mutiny at the Nore—a stagey yet intensely real vessel. The hero, a young sailor, has goodness—which is faint beside the goodness of Alyosha; still he has goodness of the glowing aggressive sort which cannot exist unless it has evil to consume. He is not aggressive himself. It is the light within him that irritates and explodes. On the surface he is a pleasant, merry, rather insensitive lad, whose perfect physique is marred by one slight defect, a stammer, which finally destroys him. He is "dropped into a world not without some mantraps, and against whose subtleties simple courage without any touch of defensive ugliness is of little avail; and where such innocence as man is capable of does yet, in a moral emergency, not always sharpen the faculties or enlighten the will." Claggart, one of the petty officers, at once sees in him the enemy—his own enemy, for Claggart is evil. It is again the contest between Ahab and Moby Dick, though the parts are more clearly assigned, and we are further from prophecy and nearer to morality and common sense. But not much nearer. Claggart is not like any other villain.

It is a short story, but it must be mentioned because it helps us understand his other work. The setting is a British warship soon after the Mutiny at the Nore. The ship feels theatrical yet intensely real. The hero, a young sailor, has a goodness that seems faint beside Alyosha’s. Still, his goodness is bright and forceful, the kind that cannot exist unless it has evil to consume. The sailor himself is not aggressive. The light within him provokes anger and makes it erupt. On the surface, he is a pleasant, cheerful, rather insensitive young man. His perfect physique has one slight flaw, a stammer, which eventually destroys him. He is "dropped into a world with some traps for the unwary. Against that world’s subtleties, simple courage is little use without a touch of defensive nastiness. And in a moral crisis, even the innocence humans can achieve does not always sharpen their judgment or clarify their will." Claggart, one of the petty officers, immediately recognizes the sailor as the enemy. The sailor is Claggart’s own enemy, because Claggart is evil. Once again, we have the struggle between Ahab and Moby Dick, though the roles are more clearly defined. We are further from prophecy and closer to morality and common sense. But not much closer. Claggart is unlike any other villain.

He accuses Billy of trying to foment a mutiny. The charge is ridiculous, no one believes it, and yet it proves fatal. For when the boy is summoned to declare his innocence, he is so horrified that he cannot speak, his ludicrous stammer seizes him, the power within him explodes, and he knocks down his traducer, kills him, and has to be hanged.

He accuses Billy of trying to stir up a mutiny. The charge is ridiculous, and no one believes it. Yet the accusation proves fatal. For when Billy is called to declare his innocence, he is so horrified that he cannot speak. His absurd stammer takes hold, and the force within him explodes. He knocks down his accuser and kills him, and so he has to be hanged.

Billy Budd is a remote unearthly episode, but it is a song not without words, and should be read both for its own beauty and as an introduction to more difficult works. Evil is labelled and personified instead of slipping over the ocean and round the world, and Melville's mind can be observed more easily. What one notices in him is that his apprehensions are free from personal worry, so that we become bigger not smaller after sharing them. He has not got that tiresome little receptacle, a conscience, which is often such a nuisance in serious writers and so contracts their effects—the conscience of Hawthorne or of Mark Rutherford. Melville—after the initial roughness of his realism—reaches straight back into the universal, to a blackness and sadness so transcending our own that they are undistinguishable from glory. He says, "in certain moods no man can weigh this world without throwing in a something somehow like Original Sin to strike the uneven balance." He threw it in, that undefinable something, the balance righted itself, and he gave us harmony and temporary salvation.

Billy Budd is a distant, otherworldly episode, but it is a song with words. It should be read both for its own beauty and as an introduction to more difficult works. Evil is named and given human form instead of slipping across the ocean and around the world. So Melville's mind is easier to observe. What stands out is that his fears are free from personal worry. So sharing those fears makes us larger, not smaller. He lacks that tiresome little container, a conscience, so often a nuisance in serious writers. Such a conscience limits their impact, as it does with Hawthorne or Mark Rutherford. After the initial roughness of his realism, Melville reaches straight back into the universal. He reaches a darkness and sadness so far beyond our own that they become indistinguishable from glory. He says, "in certain moods no man can weigh this world without throwing in a something somehow like Original Sin to strike the uneven balance." He threw in that indefinable something, and the scales balanced. And he gave us harmony and temporary salvation.

It is no wonder that D. H. Lawrence should have written two penetrating studies of Melville, for Lawrence himself is, as far as I know, the only prophetic novelist writing today—all the rest are fantasists or preachers: the only living novelist in whom the song predominates, who has the rapt bardic quality, and whom it is idle to criticize. He invites criticism because he is a preacher also—it is this minor aspect of him which makes him so difficult and misleading—an excessively clever preacher who knows how to play on the nerves of his congregation. Nothing is more disconcerting than to sit down, so to speak, before your prophet, and then suddenly to receive his boot in the pit of your stomach. "I'm damned if I'll be humble after that," you cry, and so lay yourself open to further nagging. Also the subject matter of the sermon is agitating—hot denunciations or advice—so that in the end you cannot remember whether you ought or ought not to have a body, and are only sure that you are futile. This bullying, and the honeyed sweetness which is a bully's reaction, occupy between them the foreground of Lawrence's work; his greatness lies far, far back, and rests, not like Dostoevsky's upon Christianity, nor like Melville's upon a contest, but upon something æsthetic. The voice is Balder's voice, though the hands are the hands of Esau. The prophet is irradiating nature from within, so that every colour has a glow and every form a distinctness which could not otherwise be obtained. Take a scene that always stays in the memory: that scene in Women in Love where one of the characters throws stones into the water at night to shatter the image of the moon. Why he throws, what the scene symbolizes, is unimportant. But the writer could not get such a moon and water otherwise; he reaches them by his special path which stamps them as more wonderful than any we can imagine. It is the prophet back where he started from, back where the rest of us are waiting by the edge of the pool, but with a power of re-creation and evocation we shall never possess.

No wonder D. H. Lawrence wrote two insightful studies of Melville. As far as I know, Lawrence himself is the only prophetic novelist writing today. All the rest are writers of fantasy or preachers. He is the only living novelist whose work is led by song, who has a poet’s inspired intensity. Criticizing him is pointless. Yet he invites criticism because he is also a preacher. This lesser side of Lawrence makes him so difficult and misleading. He is an excessively clever preacher who knows how to play on his congregation’s nerves. Nothing is more unsettling than sitting down, so to speak, before your prophet, then suddenly getting his boot in your stomach. "I'm damned if I'll be humble after that," you cry, and so leave yourself open to more nagging. The sermon’s subject is disturbing too, full of heated denunciations or advice. By the end, you cannot remember whether you ought to have a body or not. You are sure only that you are useless. This bullying and the sugary sweetness that follows a bully’s aggression together dominate the foreground of Lawrence’s work. His greatness lies far, far behind them. It rests neither on Christianity, like Dostoevsky’s, nor on a struggle, like Melville’s, but on something aesthetic. The voice is Balder’s voice, though the hands are the hands of Esau. The prophet lights up nature from within. As a result, every colour glows and every form stands out in a way impossible to achieve otherwise. Take an unforgettable scene in Women in Love. One of the characters throws stones into the water at night to shatter the moon’s reflection. Why he throws the stones and what the scene symbolizes are unimportant. But the writer could not create such a moon and such water any other way. He reaches them by his own special path, making them more wonderful than any we can imagine. The prophet is back where he started, where the rest of us wait by the pool’s edge. But he has a power to re-create and evoke that we will never possess.

Humility is not easy with this irritable and irritating author, for the humbler we get, the crosser he gets. Yet I do not see how else to read him. If we start resenting or mocking, his treasure disappears as surely as if we started obeying him. What is valuable about him cannot be put into words; it is colour, gesture and outline in people and things, the usual stock-in-trade of the novelist, but evolved by such a different process that they belong to a new world.

It is hard to be humble with this easily annoyed and annoying author. The humbler we become, the angrier he gets. Yet I see no other way to read him. If we start resenting or mocking him, his treasure disappears just as surely as if we started obeying him. What is valuable about his work cannot be put into words. It lies in the colour, gestures and outlines of people and things, the novelist’s usual materials. But these have developed through such a different process that they belong to a new world.

But what about Emily Brontë? Why should Wuthering Heights come into this enquiry? It is a story about human beings, it contains no view of the universe.

But what about Emily Brontë? Why should Wuthering Heights be part of this discussion? The novel is a story about human beings. It offers no view of the universe.

My answer is that the emotions of Heathcliffe and Catherine Earnshaw function differently to other emotions in fiction. Instead of inhabiting the characters, they surround them like thunder clouds, and generate the explosions that fill the novel from the moment when Lockwood dreams of the hand at the window down to the moment when Heathcliffe, with the same window open, is discovered dead. Wuthering Heights is filled with sound—storm and rushing wind—a sound more important than words and thoughts. Great as the novel is, one cannot afterwards remember anything in it but Heathcliffe and the elder Catherine. They cause the action by their separation: they close it by their union after death. No wonder they "walk"; what else could such beings do? even when they were alive their love and hate transcended them.

My answer is that Heathcliffe and Catherine Earnshaw’s emotions work differently from other emotions in fiction. Instead of living inside the characters, their emotions surround them like thunderclouds and set off the novel’s explosions. These explosions begin when Lockwood dreams of the hand at the window. They continue until Heathcliffe is found dead, with the same window open. Wuthering Heights is filled with sound, with storms and rushing wind. This sound matters more than words and thoughts. Great as the novel is, afterward you cannot remember anything in it except Heathcliffe and the elder Catherine. Their separation drives the action, and their union after death brings the action to an end. No wonder they "walk". What else could such beings do? Even when they were alive, their love and hate went beyond the characters themselves.

Emily Brontë had in some ways a literal and careful mind. She constructed her novel on a time chart even more elaborate than Miss Austen's, and she arranged the Linton and Earnshaw families symmetrically, and she had a clear idea of the various legal steps by which Heathcliffe gained possession of their two properties.⁸ Then why did she deliberately introduce muddle, chaos, tempest? Because in our sense of the word she was a prophetess: because what is implied is more important to her than what is said; and only in confusion could the figures of Heathcliffe and Catherine externalize their passion till it streamed through the house and over the moors. Wuthering Heights has no mythology beyond what these two characters provide: no great book is more cut off from the universals of Heaven and Hell. It is local, like the spirits it engenders, and whereas we may meet Moby Dick in any pond, we shall only encounter them among the harebells and limestone of their own county.

In some ways, Emily Brontë had a literal and careful mind. She planned her novel using a timeline even more elaborate than Miss Austen's. She arranged the Linton and Earnshaw families symmetrically. She also clearly understood the legal steps by which Heathcliffe took possession of their two properties.⁸ Then why did she deliberately introduce confusion, chaos, and storms? Because she was a prophetess in the sense we mean here. Because what she suggests matters more to her than what she says outright. And only through confusion could Heathcliffe and Catherine's passion take outward form, streaming through the house and over the moors. Wuthering Heights has no mythology beyond what these two characters provide. No great book is more cut off from the universal worlds of Heaven and Hell. The novel is rooted in one place, like the spirits it creates. And while we may meet Moby Dick in any pond, we will encounter these spirits only among their county's harebells and limestone.

A concluding remark. Always, at the back of my mind, there lurks a reservation about this prophetic stuff, a reservation which some will make more strongly while others will not make it at all. Fantasy has asked us to pay something extra; and now prophecy asks for humility and even for a suspension of the sense of humour, so that we are not allowed to snigger when a tragedy is called Billy Budd. We have indeed to lay aside the single vision which we bring to most of literature and life and have been trying to use through most of our enquiry, and take up a different set of tools. Is this right? Another prophet, Blake, had no doubt that it was right.

One final remark. I always have a lingering doubt about this prophetic stuff. Some will feel this doubt more strongly, while others will not feel it at all. Fantasy has asked us to pay something extra. Now prophecy asks for humility and even for us to set aside our sense of humour. So we are not allowed to snigger when a tragedy is called Billy Budd. We must indeed set aside the single way of seeing we bring to most literature and life. We have been trying to use that same perspective through most of our enquiry. Now we must take up a different set of tools. Is this change right? Another prophet, Blake, had no doubt that it was.

he cried and he has painted that same Newton with a pair of compasses in his hand, describing a miserable mathematical triangle, and turning his back upon the gorgeous and immeasurable water growths of Moby Dick. Few will agree with Blake. Fewer will agree with Blake's Newton. Most of us will be eclectics to this side or that according to our temperament. The human mind is not a dignified organ, and I do not see how we can exercise it sincerely except through eclecticism. And the only advice I would offer my fellow eclectics is: "Do not be proud of your inconsistency. It is a pity, it is a pity that we should be equipped like this. It is a pity that Man cannot be at the same time impressive and truthful." For the first five lectures of this course we have used more or less the same set of tools. This time and last we have had to lay them down. Next time we shall take them up again, but with no certainty that they are the best equipment for a critic or that there is such a thing as a critical equipment.

he cried, and he has painted that same Newton holding a pair of compasses and drawing a miserable mathematical triangle. Newton has his back turned to the gorgeous, immeasurable growths in the waters of Moby Dick. Few will agree with Blake. Fewer will agree with Blake's Newton. Most of us will pick and choose, leaning one way or another according to our temperament. The human mind is not a dignified organ. I do not see how we can use our minds honestly except by picking and choosing. And my only advice to others who pick and choose is: "Do not be proud of your inconsistency. It is a pity, it is a pity that our minds should work like this. It is a pity that human beings cannot be both impressive and truthful at once." For the first five lectures of this course, we have used more or less the same set of tools. In this lecture and the last, we have had to put those tools aside. Next time we shall take them up again. But we cannot be certain that these are the best tools for a critic. Nor can we be certain that there is such a thing as a set of critical tools.