SINtIAY, FERCRARY 17. 191
ANCIENT DIVERSITIES
tContued from tag one
institutions themselves art, as the
as in the twentieth century, whiLt the
author remarks, the forerunners of
the present day institutions. .They
are the rock whence we were hewn,
the pit whence we were digged. The
fundamental organization is tht same,
the historic continuity is unbroken.
They created the university tradition,
of the modern world, that common
THE MICHIGAN DAILY
k AGA:,Tlll l
tr:dotio oh ch ielongs to all our
institutiona of hai!her learning, the
Oeoest as wall as ti'e oldest, and
which all college and university men
should know and cherish."
I so often wonder about you as to
whether inside the big high-colored,
squinting, solemn husk is living a very
wise person or a very unmitigated
fool. -"Figures of Earth,"
r.
,;
i
z
t
by
EGO Scovan
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In these days I am forbitdingly calm. I have not, of late, plunged into
those burning-lava-like depths of moroseness; nor-have I plunged fearlessly
out and glided swallow-like through blue ecstasy.
Artzibashef's, "Breaking-Point"
"A strange and terrible catastrophe had for long been imtpenting in
the uniformity of everyday life. in the busy ' emptiness of the sate inter-
utinable routine of existence. Even a few months before everything was
going on as usual, and none imagined that anything could be unfolding
which was not a mere repitition of yesterday."
A sallow discontent with my work, with the town and with the peple
in it, slowly rises about me. I am not suited to my work and that which is
ahead o me. The smudge of a machine shop suffocates me. The intricacies
of production-record problems entangle me in their stringy tenacles. I
cooly write out application for another job.
At night I am lonesome. I sit before a coal fire and talk, or rather
listen to common sense arguments and go home filled with determination
to overcome my imaginary unfitness. I cooly tear up the application for
another job. And yet . . .
Artzibashef's "Breaking-Point."
"If he had been asked, he would probably answered unthinkingly that
that was not the most important thing, and that one could live anywhere.
But something oppressed him, crept between him and the sun, disclosed
a grey cavity in the place of the future, and awoke in him an incessant
nervous excitement which envenomed alli his surroundings."
And in this calm, almost lethargic state I find great beauty in the
sadness and moroseness of this of Artzibashef's. It is but a naive way I
have of pitying myself.
But Russian novels all tend to grow monotonous to me and I lay this one
aside to dream-maybe of Cyrano. Slowly letting the few remaining pennies
fall against my knife I think of his retort to a friend who calls him a fool
for throwing his purse to a distraught manager whose show has dispersed;
"A, but-what a gesture!"
Or lonesome and wondering where are my friends or if I really have
any, I reread;
Le Bret:
. . - But why stand against the world?
What devil has possessed you now, to go
Everywhere making yourself enemies?
Cyrano:
Watching you other people make friends
Everywhere-as a dog makes friends! I mark
The manner of these canne courtesies
And think, "My friends are of a cleaner breed;
Here comes-thank God!-another enemy!"
And then I will read of his fantastic trip to the moon and the ways
lhe might have gotten there, especially enjoying his second plan, which was:
"I might construct a rocket, in the form
Of a huge locust, driven by impulses
Of villanous saltpetre from the rear,
Upward by leaps and bounds."
Ha! Or I take refuge in Cabell. In The High Place I like a part espec-
ially, a murder which will seldom be mentioned, in company, because of
its circumstance.
". . . Then they drank, but not of the same wine, to the new
Duchess of Puysange. And the boy, Gian Paolo, died without pain.
"'It is better so,' said Florian, 'Time would have spoiled your joy in
life, Gian Paolo, and would have shaken your fond belief that I was your
slave in everything. Time lay in wait to travesty this velvet chin with a
harsh beard, to awaken harsh doubtings in the pnerry heart, and to abate
your lovely perversities with harsh repentance. For time ruins all, but
you escape him, Gian Paolo, unmarred'."
But these dreams and this leafing through my books, regurgitation of
delectable morsels, does not shut out as it used the sombre grey moods.
I feel an intense desire to go to church but the thought of a Protestant
sermon is forbidding whie the nearest Catholic church is, two miles away
1 which distance on Sunday morning is also forbidding. And yet the urge is
distinct and persistent. In the confession of John Cowper Powys', published
t0 a volume, The Confessions of Two Brothers, I find as precise a statement
as I know concerning just such an attitude towards church:
" . I love to 'dally' as I call it, with the more gracious aspects
of religion. Innately I regard religion--te Catholic Church for instance-
as anoble and beautiful work of art, constructed anonymously by humanity
for its own satisfaction, and offering a lovely and romantic escape from the
banalities of existence.
"I am not in the least troubled by its inconsistencies or impossibilities.
If it were not superbly itmspossible, if it didi ot tcttme fiutitg in rims
outside the closed circle,it wooti>ithit-orthyof i the name reigimn
A rational religion is a contradiction in terms; and only thoroughly stupid
people are interested in such an anomaly. The value to me of this
wonderful impossible invention having appeared at all upon the earth, is
the fact that its appearance makes one consider once more, how extremely
likely it is that the real truth of the universe is something amazingly,
|absolutely different from anything that anyone has dared to dream. Re-
ligion at any rate must always have this value, that it prevents our self
satisfied men of science from closing the door to staggering chances.
"As the supeme work of art of our race, ihave the utmost reverence
for religion; and as a protest against barring out incredible possibilities,
I regard it with admiration. When however, it becomes a question of
possessing 'faith', or having what is called the 'religious sense', I must
confess to a cold and complete indifference."
S a lovely andromantic escape ifmth'baalitiesof existence."'
Such banalities as Cabell in Beyond Life calls the 'interminable' tale 'of,
our grave-faced antics', Cahet says ". . . I-me tSo-and-So, and -
inquire simultaneously, 'How do you do?" without either of us giving or
expecting an answer. We shake hands, for the perhaps iadeqate reason
that several centuries ago people did this to show that neither of theis
was carrying a knife." And, ". . . and indeed the majority ofuits appear
to get through life quite comfortably without thining at all. For citsiler
(Continued on Page Fonur)
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