Alice Meynell - Decivilised [The Rhythm of Life]

재독 - [초반부는 미국 문학가들의 천박스러움 등을 이야기하고, 후반부는 영국에도 그런 작가들이 많이 있다는 이야기로 이어진다. 전체적으로 식민지를 소재로 한 이국풍의 이야기를 직접적으로 비판하는 것이라고 못박을 수는 없을 듯하나, 영문학의 전통에서 벗어난 속된 작품, decivilized 된 작품들에 대한 비판이 주된 내용인 듯하다. 콘래드는 이 글에 대해서 비판을 하고 있다.]

decivilize (third-person singular simple present decivilizes, present participle decivilizing, simple past and past participle decivilized)

1. (transitive) To make less civilized. quotations ▼
   • 2005, Marilynne Robinson, The Death of Adam: Essays on Modern Thought‎^[1], →ISBN, page 74:

     Are we not in fact dicivilizing ourselves as we decivilize them? Why is there no outcry? Is it because we have cast off the delusion of human sanctity?

2. (intransitive) To become less civilized. quotations ▼
   • 2003, David Weber, Empire from the ashes‎^[2], →ISBN:

     Or how beings such as ourselves—such as you now are— with lifespans measured in centuries and strength and endurance far beyond that of Terra- born humans, could decivilize so utterly?

- decivilised man

- He writes, and recites, poems about ranches and canyons; they are designed to betray the recklessness of his nature and to reveal the good that lurks in the lawless ways of a young society.  He is there to explain himself, voluble, with a glossary for his own artless slang.  But his colonialism is only provincialism very articulate.

- Whereas there is no beginning for her, but instead a continuity which only a constant care can guide into sustained refinement and can save from decivilisation.

- The decivilised have every grace as the antecedent of their vulgarities, every distinction as the precedent of their mediocrities.

- Nothing can look duller than the future of this second-hand and multiplying world.

- it is before this prospect that the provincial overseas lifts up his voice in a boast or a promise common enough among the incapable young, but pardonable only in senility.

- He promises the world a literature, an art, that shall be new because his forest is untracked and his town just built.  But what the newness is to be he cannot tell.

[생각보다 글이 어렵다. 다시 한 번 읽어볼 것]

[Essays on Conrad] 

- she objects to colonial literature because it ignores the value of continuity, and argues that, though we cannot select our posterity, 'we may give our thoughts noble forefathers' and 'follow theri ways to the best well-heads of the ars'. Decivilized art, on the other hand, presents the 'mentally inexpensive', and is 'designed to . . . reveal the good that lurks in the lawless ways of a young society'. (37)

- 강조 : the 'savage surroundings' serve only to throw the basic similarities of man in sharp relief, / Borneo of AF essentially mirrors man's metaphysical, not his physical, condition. (38)

- deeply concerned with the relationship between subject-matter, authorial vision, and the general role of the artist. 

Could you not say something about being a "civilizes story in savage surroundings?" (L1 199)

[전문]

The difficulty of dealing–in the course of any critical duty–with decivilized man lies in this: when you accuse him of vulgarity– sparing him no doubt the word–he defends himself against the charge of barbarism. Especially from new soil–remote, colonial–he faces you, bronzed, with a half conviction of savagery, partly persuaded of his own youthfulness of race. He writes, and recites, poems about ranches and canyons; they are designed to betray the recklessness of his nature and to reveal the good that lurks in the lawless ways of a young society. He is there to explain himself, voluble, with a glossary for his own artless slang. But his colonialism is only provincialism very articulate. The new air does but make old decadences seem more stale; the young soil does but set into fresh conditions the ready-made, the uncostly, the refuse feeling of a race decivilizing. He who played long this pattering part of youth, hastened to assure you with so self-denying a face he did not wear war-paint and feathers, that it became doubly difficult to communicate to him that you had suspected him of nothing wilder than a second-hand (figurative) dress coat. And when it was a question not of rebuke, but of praise, even the American was ill- content with the word of the judicious who lauded him for some delicate successes in continuing something of the literature of England, something of the art of France; he was more eager for the applause that stimulated him to write poems in prose form and to paint panoramic landscape, after brief training in academies of native inspiration. Even now English voices are constantly calling upon America to begin–to begin, for the world is expectant. Whereas there is no beginning for her, but instead a fine and admirable continuity which only a constant care can guide into sustained advance.

But decivilized man is not peculiar to new soil. The English town, too, knows him in all his dailiness. In England, too, he has a literature, an art, a music, all his own–derived from many and various things of price. Trash, in the fullness of its insimplicity and cheapness, is impossible without a beautiful past. Its chief characteristic–which is futility, not failure–could not be achieved but by the long abuse, the rotatory reproduction, the quotidian disgrace, of the utterances of Art, especially the utterance by words. Gaiety, vigour, vitality, the organic quality, purity, simplicity, precision–all these are among the antecedents of trash. It is after them; it is also, alas, because of them. And nothing can be much sadder that such a proof of what may possibly be the failure of derivation.

Evidently we cannot choose our posterity. Reversing the steps of time, we may, indeed choose backwards. We may give our thoughts noble forefathers. Well begotten, well born our fancies must be; they shall be also well derived. We have a voice in decreeing our inheritance, and not our inheritance only, but our heredity. Our minds may trace upwards and follow their ways to the best well-heads of the arts. The very habit of our thoughts may be persuaded one way unawares by their antenatal history. Their companions must be lovely, but need be no lovelier than their ancestors; and being so fathered and so husbanded, our thoughts may be intrusted to keep the counsels of literature.

Such is our confidence in a descent we know. But, of a sequel which of us is sure? Which of us is secured against the dangers of subsequent depreciation? And, moreover, which of us shall trace the contemporary tendencies, the one towards honour, the other towards dishonour? Or who shall discover why derivation becomes degeneration, and where and when and how the bastardy befalls? The decivilized have every grace as the antecedent of their vulgarities, every distinction as the precedent of their mediocrities. No ballad-concert song, feign it sigh, frolic, or laugh, but has the excuse that the feint was suggested, was made easy, by some living sweetness once. Nor are the decivilized to blame as having in their own persons possessed civilization and marred it. They did not possess it; they were born into some tendency to derogation, into an inclination for things mentally inexpensive. And the tendency can hardly do other than continue.

Nothing can look duller than the future of this second-hand and multiplying world. Men need not be common merely because they are many; but the infection of commonness once begun in the many, what dullness in their future! To the eye that has reluctantly discovered this truth–that the vulgarized are not un-civilized, and that there is no growth for them–it does not look like a future at all. More ballad-concerts, more quaint English, more robustious barytone songs, more piecemeal pictures, more colonial poetry, more young nations with withered traditions. Yet it is before this prospect that the provincial overseas lifts up his voice in a boast or a promise common enough among the incapable young, but pardonable only in senility. He promises the world a literature, an art, that shall be new because his forest is untracked and his town just built. But what the newness is to be he cannot tell. Certain words were dreadful once in the mouth of desperate old age. Dreadful and pitiable as the threat of an impotent king, what shall we name them when they are the promise of an impotent people? “I will do such things: what they are yet I know not.”