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Scientifictionist, issue 2, after 1945

Page 13

CHINg the god solid cat-fish, stealing a watermelons or listening to the drawling picturesqueness of shanty loafers.

And Herman Melville, before personal sadness and the strange loneliness of his fate drove him through mazes into silence, lived outwardly too. For all his Titan revolt against 'the proud commodores of this world', he loved the blues and greens of the sea, the smell of blubber, the eerie strangeness of white, the thunder and crash of great action. He made nature herself into symbol, incarnating the power of the subhuman in Moby Dick, the White Whale.

Even the shy and lonely Emily Dickenson did not stagnate in some nebulous inner Cloud Land; she wrote of the 'naked tree' in March that was 'not at home to callers' till its jacket came in April; of the sea, that 'everywhere of silver'; of the blatant notoriety of the petty great of any given day -- 'How public like a frog!' There was no surrealism, no dad, in all her poetry.

Thus the true founding fathers of the American scene -- the poets and the prophets who have invited the American dream -- the creators who have 'hung a faith and a love' like stars above our Continent -- have all practiced this noble objectivity. Indeed, we may say that America is an origin, a New World in this sense most. America speaks in the good words of Thoreau: 'I would not be one of those who will foolishly drive a nail into mere lath and plastering; such a deed would keep me up nights. Give a hammer and let me feel for the furring.'

The great spokesman for the American scene have been integrated, organic, harmonious, because they loved the outer world and lit it into being with the sun of their own hearts. They found, as individuals, their way out of the multi-verses of the fog, and into the universe of the sun. But their Golden Day never became triumphant outside their own lives; it remains only a great tradition.

Where is our light, where is our road, today, to a wider cosmos of harmony and integrity than even they knew? We have lost it in our individual lives and in most of our art and literature. Where can we find it -- and how can we make it the triumphant psychological climate of our Continent? That is our question...and destiny.

Health of the eyes, harmony of the heart, joy of the spirit; in short, integrity. This must be the achievement of tomorrow, if life is to survive and art is to return. It must become the psychological weather, the spiritual climate, of our Continent.

Integrity! Where do we find integrity in the modern world? We find it where the statesmen of construction, known as engineers, have been able to function in spite of business and politics. In Continental planning (as in a vision) and in actual detailed engineering of modern highways, dams, hydroelectric power, the new agriculture, hydroponics, etc., we find hints and broken gleams of what might be. The statesmen of engineering see objectively; they see things lucidly simple, concretely; and they love the things they see with a clean objectivity. They create a spiritual community, a modern version of Van Gogh's community of creators of of Whitman's 'dear love of comrades': for they bring men together into unity. Great architecture, spacious with air and gracious with light -- great planning of cities and waterways and farms -- great highways spanning the hills and the morning with the easy might of perfect power, streamlined trains and automobiles -- these not only unite men practically, they unite them aesthetically: men's hearts leap up at those as surely as at the rainbow in the sky; men do not quarrel or differ or doubt concerning these; men are united by these as by prayer or sacraments, or Bach's fugues, or the ancient democracy of death, or the timeless miracle of the child in the cradle. These are spiritual unions beyond all parties and politics and false divisive theories. Men are pushed apart by political platforms, or by artistic fashions; men are brought together by engineering and the social unities of great construction. Great engineering fulfills Tolstoi's profound definition of art: it unites men in great emotion.

page 13

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CHINg the god solid cat-fish, stealing a watermelons or listening to the drawling picturesqueness of shanty loafers. And Herman Melville, before personal sadness and the strange loneliness of his fate drove him through mazes into silence, lived outwardly too. For all his Titan revolt against 'the proud commodores of this world', he loved the blues and greens of the sea, the smell of blubber, the eerie strangeness of white, the thunder and crash of great action. He made nature herself into symbol, incarnating the power of the subhuman in Moby Dick, the White Whale. Even the shy and lonely Emily Dickenson did not stagnate in some nebulous inner Cloud Land; she wrote of the 'naked tree' in March that was 'not at home to callers' till its jacket came in April; of the sea, that 'everywhere of silver'; of the blatant notoriety of the petty great of any given day -- 'How public like a frog!' There was no surrealism, no dad, in all her poetry. Thus the true founding fathers of the American scene -- the poets and the prophets who have invited the American dream -- the creators who have 'hung a faith and a love' like stars above our Continent -- have all practiced this noble objectivity. Indeed, we may say that America is an origin, a New World in this sense most. America speaks in the good words of Thoreau: 'I would not be one of those who will foolishly drive a nail into mere lath and plastering; such a deed would keep me up nights. Give a hammer and let me feel for the furring.' The great spokesman for the American scene have been integrated, organic, harmonious, because they loved the outer world and lit it into being with the sun of their own hearts. They found, as individuals, their way out of the multi-verses of the fog, and into the universe of the sun. But their Golden Day never became triumphant outside their own lives; it remains only a great tradition. Where is our light, where is our road, today, to a wider cosmos of harmony and integrity than even they knew? We have lost it in our individual lives and in most of our art and literature. Where can we find it -- and how can we make it the triumphant psychological climate of our Continent? That is our question...and destiny. Health of the eyes, harmony of the heart, joy of the spirit; in short, integrity. This must be the achievement of tomorrow, if life is to survive and art is to return. It must become the psychological weather, the spiritual climate, of our Continent. Integrity! Where do we find integrity in the modern world? We find it where the statesmen of construction, known as engineers, have been able to function in spite of business and politics. In Continental planning (as in a vision) and in actual detailed engineering of modern highways, dams, hydroelectric power, the new agriculture, hydroponics, etc., we find hints and broken gleams of what might be. The statesmen of engineering see objectively; they see things lucidly simple, concretely; and they love the things they see with a clean objectivity. They create a spiritual community, a modern version of Van Gogh's community of creators of of Whitman's 'dear love of comrades': for they bring men together into unity. Great architecture, spacious with air and gracious with light -- great planning of cities and waterways and farms -- great highways spanning the hills and the morning with the easy might of perfect power, streamlined trains and automobiles -- these not only unite men practically, they unite them aesthetically: men's hearts leap up at those as surely as at the rainbow in the sky; men do not quarrel or differ or doubt concerning these; men are united by these as by prayer or sacraments, or Bach's fugues, or the ancient democracy of death, or the timeless miracle of the child in the cradle. These are spiritual unions beyond all parties and politics and false divisive theories. Men are pushed apart by political platforms, or by artistic fashions; men are brought together by engineering and the social unities of great construction. Great engineering fulfills Tolstoi's profound definition of art: it unites men in great emotion. page 13