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jhameiaBe ready for this, people. Citations and quotes and all, but no formatting. I spent most of the night talking to Will and Heather, some of it to Sean, and got to bed only around 2 - 3am. Then I woke up at 5am to finish it off. I opened with Archibald MacLeish's Ars Poetica, and, would you believe, finished off with a quote from The Last Unicorn.
Nathaniel Hawthorne's hero of The Artist of the Beautiful is the sort of sensitive young man who is the tortured artist, not by any flaw of his own in my perspective, but by the environment surrounding him and his complicated nature. The artist is always looked down upon by the owners of practical, solidly good sense, who feel themselves capable people because they contribute something to public life and understand the economical pressures of the daily grind. Poor Owen Warland, however, belongs to the extreme side of sensibility that finds itself either incapable of or unwilling to commit to the idea of "practical life" and insists on dogging the artistic and the ideals of beauty. To use the succinct terms from Oakeshott's discussion on The Voice of Poetry in the Conversation of Mankind, Owen Warland finds himself representing the voice of artistic poetry in the conversation of life, valiantly vying to be heard over the voices of practical activity - a conflict that has become all too common since the advent of the Industrial age.
i. Vox
Firstly, let me identify the different voices that Oakeshott discusses with regards to the three main characters in The Artist of the Beautiful. While this should be quite straightforward in the order of Owen Warland being the voice of poetry, Peter Hovenden the voice of science and Robert Danforth the voice of practical activity, it is not quite so simple. Firstly, Owen Warland was the apprentice of Peter Hovenden to become a watchmaker and "seemed to aim at the hidden mysteries of mechanism" (Hawthorne 909). His grasp of mechanics and the physics of minutiae point towards a penchant for the voice of science. His vox scientia can be understood as a kind of discourse in which he imagines and moves about images (Oaksshott 505), an inquiry that is typically for intellectual satisfaction but in Warland's case, artistic satisfaction. Owen Warland used the discourse of science towards the aims of poetry - to achieve an end that is not considered part of practical activity's discourse. I shall speak more of this in the next section.
This complex creature can be easily contrasted to Peter Hovenden, an obvious representative for the voice of science linked to the discourse of practical activity. Peter Hovenden is a man who keeps in mind the "grand object of a watchmaker's business" and focuses on the "measurement of time". His voice of science is important insofar as it serves a rational purpose, in this case, making watches that keep good track of time. Robert Danforth is the simplest of characters as the voice of practical activity, a voice expressed in Peter Hovenden's exclamation on Danforth's blacksmith profession: "how it takes the nonsense out of a man!" (908)
ii. Science and Its Relation to Poetry and Practicality
Science was considered to be a didactic voice, an activity in which we differentiate between what is rational and what is not rational (Oakeshott 505) and it still contains a didactic tone towards those whom it teaches its language and symbols. The language of science is so much more precise than the language of practical activity, yet once it is understood, it is often put to practical activity than it is for the ends of pure scientific investigation itself. Peter Hovenden is an example of this use of the language of science, in his case watch-making, applied to practical activity, which has an economic end. He does show a great respect for the concept of Time, yet only so far as Time serves the purpose of economy (practical activity).
However, the purest purpose of science, if it be untouched by "the intrusion of desire for power and prosperity," is not necessarily to make the world a better place, but to rationalize the world and make it more easily understood. Scientia is when we focus on rational understanding (506). Owen is the possessor of scientia when he wanders off in the woods chasing after butterflies, because he is seeking to understand their organic biology and make it more accessible to imitate. Owen's science is of the minute and he uses it towards the ends of art, which is not recognized to serve the ends of science (he does not, for example, write a discourse on how the biology of butterflies works) or practical activity (a mechanical imitation of a butterfly is very pretty but useless).
iii. The Image in Relation to Poetry and Practicality
The image, being the result of contemplation or the imagination, is put to two different purposes with regards to poetry and practical activity. Simply speaking, practical activity uses the image as a means, whereas poetry uses the image as an ends.
In practical activity, the image is often one of many; the entire set of images will comprise of a process that is continuous until there is no more need for images, i.e., death (Oakeshott 510). In practical activity, the process of creating images is a product of habit, not of choice, (498) and every image is of the mind at work in making the world a better place - that is to say, a more convenient place to live (499). These images, communicated in the language of practical activity, are so fixed and common that they are easily identified once one has got the hang of the language through imitation (503). Peter Hovenden's images comprise of the watch's wheels in motion. He understands how the clock should think, how the mechanisms should move, so that the clock breaks down as rarely as possible. As long as the clock does not break down, it is serving its purpose: the measurement of time. The image of the ticking watch is therefore used as a means towards this purpose.
Poetry, on the other hand, is not interested in how things should work in a rational manner (528). It is science's business to understand how the natural world works and how it corresponds, but poetry does not simply convey what images science has gleaned through investigation; informed by science, it creates images, no matter how unfamiliar the images could be. Owen Warland's mechanical butterfly does not rationally correspond to nature, but it was to that end that he applied his knowledge of the minutae - the image of a butterfly, created by his very own hand instead of that of nature's. Despite its incongruity, the mechanical butterfly, formerly a mere formulation and image in Owen Warland's mind, is the ultimate end of his labours.
iv. Contemplation and the Image
As Oakeshott writes, contemplation - the activity of image-making - used to be the highest and best thing to do, since it was a "purely receptive experience" (511). Scientific inquiry was preparation for it, and practical activity was a distraction. The problem was that only the elite with a lot of money and no need to work could do this. Since back then the elite (aristocrats) were highly respected, it made sense that their values were respected. This elite which prized contemplation, and thus, art, has no longer been considered respectable since the two Revolutions that essentially put the economic spotlight on the working class and today we frown on rich people who do not do anything "important" with their money. (This is why we make fun of celebrities who like to party a lot.) Owen, when he came into his inheritance, did not have to work, and thus did not have to be distracted by "practical engagements" (although he did party a lot, too) and thus was able to dedicate himself to his scientific investigation and thus, to his activity of image-making (contemplation).
If we can agree that contemplation is the activity of image-making, then what Owen does is also image making - the re-creation of a mechanical butterfly. Owen is not simply chasing after butterflies - he is still doing something, even though those of practical activity do not see its value, because chasing butterflies to understand their mechanics has no economic value. Nobody buys the principles of a butterfly's mechanics. Because contemplation does not involve research nor a desire to make something functional, it is often mistake for inactivity, just as Owen is mistaken for being mad and useless while he ambles all over the countryside gazing at butterflies.
A key passage in Oakeshott on the relationship between contemplation and the image it creates reads thus:
"...poetry appears when imagining is contemplative imagining .. that is, when images are not recognized either as "fact" or as "not fact"... but are made, remade, observed, turned about, played with, meditated upon and delighted in, when they are composed into larger patterns which are themselves only more complex images and not conclusions" (516).
This is, to be succinct, the process and the end of Owen's mechanical butterfly.
v. Poetry and its Relation to Practical Order
The greatest problem that an artist has in the face of an environment which neither appreciates his talents nor desires the products of his imagination is a justification for all that effort being put into what is widely considered a "useless" activity. In short, "what is the 'function' of poetry in the social order?" (Oakeshott 533)
There are approximately three answers to the question, one more valid than the others, depending on who you are. The first, as attested to by the likes of Peter Hovenden and Robert Danforth, is that poetry is a "regrettable distraction from the proper business of living" (533). This answer is usually advocated by well-meaning people who have no sympathy for the artist and believe in the economic value of things. Anything that is a distraction ought to be destroyed so that the poet can carry on in a proper manner, as Peter Hovenden almost does to Owen's mechanical butterfly: "Owen, Owen! there is a witchcraft in these little chains, and wheels, and paddles! See! with one pinch of my finger and thumb, I am going to deliver you from all future peril" (915). Most artists are quite put upon by such arbitrary decisions in favour of destruction.
The second answer is the poetry can be used in a practical manner: poetry teaches us how to live or how to interpret the world. The value in literature that depicts human drama is that it demonstrates how man handles his world's problems, thus enlightening the reader to either do the same, or do differently, depending on the criticism offered by the writer. Because poetry in itself is delightful, learners are thereby more receptive to it than if they were subject to dry didacticism. This has been an argument long used since Sir Philip Sidney justified the use of poetry in his Defense of Poesy. It is reflected in the wholeness of Hawthorne's story, not just any single component, therefore I could not point out to you a specific instance of this justification within the story itself.
The third answer, which I find is often an answer that few are ever pleased with, is that poetry just is. It is its own voice in the conversation of mankind which is currently dominated by science and practical activity. It is therefore neither subordinate nor superior to these voices. The problem with this, of course, is that in order to participate in the conversation, it must be understood (535), and not everybody understands poetry. Nobody could explain Owen's choice to create a butterfly all on his own and no can find a use for, as Robert Danforth says, "But what then? There is more real use in one downright blow of my sledge-hammer, than in the whole five years' labour that our friend Owen has wasted on this butterfly!" (928)
Conclusion: The Butterfly - the Achievement of Owen's Vita Contemplativa
What is poetry's relation to the order of society as we know it today? The poets put their art into words, and either tear the papers to pieces or send it out to the world through publication. The sculptor fashions into concrete being his representation of beauty. The unappreciative audience picks apart these works as if they could find the Ultimate Truth or discern the quality of "Beauty" (Oakeshott 521). When it cannot find either truth nor beauty, the audience reviles the poet, as if he could take the art and put it back into his head. "Thou hast gone forth out of thy master's heart. There is no return for thee!" says Owen Warland, and the butterfly is left out in the parlour to be wondered at by Annie, to be questioned by Robert Danforth, to be doubted by Peter Hovenden, and finally, to be crushed by the child born in the environment of practical activity (Hawthorne 930).
Owen says nothing, because there is nothing left to say. He has achieved the final end of his contemplative life. He has reached the highest level of contemplation and he has made concrete his ultimate moment of vita contemplativa. As such, he does not need to exult in its physical presence because he has known it in his spirit. He has gone to the beyond. To use an illustration from Peter S. Beagle’s novel, The Last Unicorn, as elucidated by an old skull:
“When I was alive, I believed – as you do – that time was at least as real and solid as myself, and probably more so. I said ‘one o’clock’ as though I could see it, and ‘Monday’ as though I could find it on the map; and I let myself be hurried along from minute to minute, day to day, year to year, as though I were actually moving from one place to another. Like everyone else, I lived in a house bricked up with seconds and minutes, weekends and New Year’s Days, and I never went outside until I died, because there was no other door. Now I know I could have walked through the walls” (169).
As a watch-maker, Owen should have paid special attention to Time and the constraints it places on human life. He did not find Perpetual Motion; he stepped through the walls of Time and found Eternity.
Nathaniel Hawthorne's hero of The Artist of the Beautiful is the sort of sensitive young man who is the tortured artist, not by any flaw of his own in my perspective, but by the environment surrounding him and his complicated nature. The artist is always looked down upon by the owners of practical, solidly good sense, who feel themselves capable people because they contribute something to public life and understand the economical pressures of the daily grind. Poor Owen Warland, however, belongs to the extreme side of sensibility that finds itself either incapable of or unwilling to commit to the idea of "practical life" and insists on dogging the artistic and the ideals of beauty. To use the succinct terms from Oakeshott's discussion on The Voice of Poetry in the Conversation of Mankind, Owen Warland finds himself representing the voice of artistic poetry in the conversation of life, valiantly vying to be heard over the voices of practical activity - a conflict that has become all too common since the advent of the Industrial age.
i. Vox
Firstly, let me identify the different voices that Oakeshott discusses with regards to the three main characters in The Artist of the Beautiful. While this should be quite straightforward in the order of Owen Warland being the voice of poetry, Peter Hovenden the voice of science and Robert Danforth the voice of practical activity, it is not quite so simple. Firstly, Owen Warland was the apprentice of Peter Hovenden to become a watchmaker and "seemed to aim at the hidden mysteries of mechanism" (Hawthorne 909). His grasp of mechanics and the physics of minutiae point towards a penchant for the voice of science. His vox scientia can be understood as a kind of discourse in which he imagines and moves about images (Oaksshott 505), an inquiry that is typically for intellectual satisfaction but in Warland's case, artistic satisfaction. Owen Warland used the discourse of science towards the aims of poetry - to achieve an end that is not considered part of practical activity's discourse. I shall speak more of this in the next section.
This complex creature can be easily contrasted to Peter Hovenden, an obvious representative for the voice of science linked to the discourse of practical activity. Peter Hovenden is a man who keeps in mind the "grand object of a watchmaker's business" and focuses on the "measurement of time". His voice of science is important insofar as it serves a rational purpose, in this case, making watches that keep good track of time. Robert Danforth is the simplest of characters as the voice of practical activity, a voice expressed in Peter Hovenden's exclamation on Danforth's blacksmith profession: "how it takes the nonsense out of a man!" (908)
ii. Science and Its Relation to Poetry and Practicality
Science was considered to be a didactic voice, an activity in which we differentiate between what is rational and what is not rational (Oakeshott 505) and it still contains a didactic tone towards those whom it teaches its language and symbols. The language of science is so much more precise than the language of practical activity, yet once it is understood, it is often put to practical activity than it is for the ends of pure scientific investigation itself. Peter Hovenden is an example of this use of the language of science, in his case watch-making, applied to practical activity, which has an economic end. He does show a great respect for the concept of Time, yet only so far as Time serves the purpose of economy (practical activity).
However, the purest purpose of science, if it be untouched by "the intrusion of desire for power and prosperity," is not necessarily to make the world a better place, but to rationalize the world and make it more easily understood. Scientia is when we focus on rational understanding (506). Owen is the possessor of scientia when he wanders off in the woods chasing after butterflies, because he is seeking to understand their organic biology and make it more accessible to imitate. Owen's science is of the minute and he uses it towards the ends of art, which is not recognized to serve the ends of science (he does not, for example, write a discourse on how the biology of butterflies works) or practical activity (a mechanical imitation of a butterfly is very pretty but useless).
iii. The Image in Relation to Poetry and Practicality
The image, being the result of contemplation or the imagination, is put to two different purposes with regards to poetry and practical activity. Simply speaking, practical activity uses the image as a means, whereas poetry uses the image as an ends.
In practical activity, the image is often one of many; the entire set of images will comprise of a process that is continuous until there is no more need for images, i.e., death (Oakeshott 510). In practical activity, the process of creating images is a product of habit, not of choice, (498) and every image is of the mind at work in making the world a better place - that is to say, a more convenient place to live (499). These images, communicated in the language of practical activity, are so fixed and common that they are easily identified once one has got the hang of the language through imitation (503). Peter Hovenden's images comprise of the watch's wheels in motion. He understands how the clock should think, how the mechanisms should move, so that the clock breaks down as rarely as possible. As long as the clock does not break down, it is serving its purpose: the measurement of time. The image of the ticking watch is therefore used as a means towards this purpose.
Poetry, on the other hand, is not interested in how things should work in a rational manner (528). It is science's business to understand how the natural world works and how it corresponds, but poetry does not simply convey what images science has gleaned through investigation; informed by science, it creates images, no matter how unfamiliar the images could be. Owen Warland's mechanical butterfly does not rationally correspond to nature, but it was to that end that he applied his knowledge of the minutae - the image of a butterfly, created by his very own hand instead of that of nature's. Despite its incongruity, the mechanical butterfly, formerly a mere formulation and image in Owen Warland's mind, is the ultimate end of his labours.
iv. Contemplation and the Image
As Oakeshott writes, contemplation - the activity of image-making - used to be the highest and best thing to do, since it was a "purely receptive experience" (511). Scientific inquiry was preparation for it, and practical activity was a distraction. The problem was that only the elite with a lot of money and no need to work could do this. Since back then the elite (aristocrats) were highly respected, it made sense that their values were respected. This elite which prized contemplation, and thus, art, has no longer been considered respectable since the two Revolutions that essentially put the economic spotlight on the working class and today we frown on rich people who do not do anything "important" with their money. (This is why we make fun of celebrities who like to party a lot.) Owen, when he came into his inheritance, did not have to work, and thus did not have to be distracted by "practical engagements" (although he did party a lot, too) and thus was able to dedicate himself to his scientific investigation and thus, to his activity of image-making (contemplation).
If we can agree that contemplation is the activity of image-making, then what Owen does is also image making - the re-creation of a mechanical butterfly. Owen is not simply chasing after butterflies - he is still doing something, even though those of practical activity do not see its value, because chasing butterflies to understand their mechanics has no economic value. Nobody buys the principles of a butterfly's mechanics. Because contemplation does not involve research nor a desire to make something functional, it is often mistake for inactivity, just as Owen is mistaken for being mad and useless while he ambles all over the countryside gazing at butterflies.
A key passage in Oakeshott on the relationship between contemplation and the image it creates reads thus:
"...poetry appears when imagining is contemplative imagining .. that is, when images are not recognized either as "fact" or as "not fact"... but are made, remade, observed, turned about, played with, meditated upon and delighted in, when they are composed into larger patterns which are themselves only more complex images and not conclusions" (516).
This is, to be succinct, the process and the end of Owen's mechanical butterfly.
v. Poetry and its Relation to Practical Order
The greatest problem that an artist has in the face of an environment which neither appreciates his talents nor desires the products of his imagination is a justification for all that effort being put into what is widely considered a "useless" activity. In short, "what is the 'function' of poetry in the social order?" (Oakeshott 533)
There are approximately three answers to the question, one more valid than the others, depending on who you are. The first, as attested to by the likes of Peter Hovenden and Robert Danforth, is that poetry is a "regrettable distraction from the proper business of living" (533). This answer is usually advocated by well-meaning people who have no sympathy for the artist and believe in the economic value of things. Anything that is a distraction ought to be destroyed so that the poet can carry on in a proper manner, as Peter Hovenden almost does to Owen's mechanical butterfly: "Owen, Owen! there is a witchcraft in these little chains, and wheels, and paddles! See! with one pinch of my finger and thumb, I am going to deliver you from all future peril" (915). Most artists are quite put upon by such arbitrary decisions in favour of destruction.
The second answer is the poetry can be used in a practical manner: poetry teaches us how to live or how to interpret the world. The value in literature that depicts human drama is that it demonstrates how man handles his world's problems, thus enlightening the reader to either do the same, or do differently, depending on the criticism offered by the writer. Because poetry in itself is delightful, learners are thereby more receptive to it than if they were subject to dry didacticism. This has been an argument long used since Sir Philip Sidney justified the use of poetry in his Defense of Poesy. It is reflected in the wholeness of Hawthorne's story, not just any single component, therefore I could not point out to you a specific instance of this justification within the story itself.
The third answer, which I find is often an answer that few are ever pleased with, is that poetry just is. It is its own voice in the conversation of mankind which is currently dominated by science and practical activity. It is therefore neither subordinate nor superior to these voices. The problem with this, of course, is that in order to participate in the conversation, it must be understood (535), and not everybody understands poetry. Nobody could explain Owen's choice to create a butterfly all on his own and no can find a use for, as Robert Danforth says, "But what then? There is more real use in one downright blow of my sledge-hammer, than in the whole five years' labour that our friend Owen has wasted on this butterfly!" (928)
Conclusion: The Butterfly - the Achievement of Owen's Vita Contemplativa
What is poetry's relation to the order of society as we know it today? The poets put their art into words, and either tear the papers to pieces or send it out to the world through publication. The sculptor fashions into concrete being his representation of beauty. The unappreciative audience picks apart these works as if they could find the Ultimate Truth or discern the quality of "Beauty" (Oakeshott 521). When it cannot find either truth nor beauty, the audience reviles the poet, as if he could take the art and put it back into his head. "Thou hast gone forth out of thy master's heart. There is no return for thee!" says Owen Warland, and the butterfly is left out in the parlour to be wondered at by Annie, to be questioned by Robert Danforth, to be doubted by Peter Hovenden, and finally, to be crushed by the child born in the environment of practical activity (Hawthorne 930).
Owen says nothing, because there is nothing left to say. He has achieved the final end of his contemplative life. He has reached the highest level of contemplation and he has made concrete his ultimate moment of vita contemplativa. As such, he does not need to exult in its physical presence because he has known it in his spirit. He has gone to the beyond. To use an illustration from Peter S. Beagle’s novel, The Last Unicorn, as elucidated by an old skull:
“When I was alive, I believed – as you do – that time was at least as real and solid as myself, and probably more so. I said ‘one o’clock’ as though I could see it, and ‘Monday’ as though I could find it on the map; and I let myself be hurried along from minute to minute, day to day, year to year, as though I were actually moving from one place to another. Like everyone else, I lived in a house bricked up with seconds and minutes, weekends and New Year’s Days, and I never went outside until I died, because there was no other door. Now I know I could have walked through the walls” (169).
As a watch-maker, Owen should have paid special attention to Time and the constraints it places on human life. He did not find Perpetual Motion; he stepped through the walls of Time and found Eternity.