And if poets were able to proofread1 their own obits, I wonder if any two lines would have given Joyce Kilmer more honest pride than these:
JOYCE KILMER, POET,
IS KILLED IN ACTION
Joyce Kilmer died as he lived—“in action.” He found life intensely amusing, unspeakably interesting; his energy was unlimited3, his courage stout4. He attacked life at all points, rapidly gathered its complexities5 about him, and the more intricate it[Pg 98] became the more zestful6 he found it. Nothing bewildered him, nothing terrified. By the time he was thirty he had attained7 an almost unique position in literary circles. He lectured on poetry, he interviewed famous men of letters, he was poet, editor, essayist, critic, anthologist. He was endlessly active, full of delightful9 mirth and a thousand schemes for outwitting the devil of necessity that hunts all brainworkers. Nothing could quench10 him. He was ready to turn out a poem, an essay, a critical article, a lecture, at a few minutes' notice. He had been along all the pavements of Grub Street, perhaps the most exciting place of breadwinning known to the civilized11 man. From his beginning as a sales clerk in a New York bookstore (where, so the tale goes, by misreading the price cipher12 he sold a $150 volume for $1.50) down to the time when he was run over by an Erie train and dictated13 his weekly article for the New York Times in hospital with three broken ribs14, no difficulties or perplexities daunted16 him.
But beneath this whirling activity which amused and amazed his friends there lay a deeper and quieter vein17 which was rich in its own passion. It is not becoming to prate18 of what lies in other men's souls; we all have our secrecies19 and sanctuaries20, rarely acknowledged even to ourselves. But no one can read Joyce Kilmer's poems without grasping his vigorous idealism, his keen sense of beauty, his devout21 and simple religion, his clutch on the[Pg 99] preciousness of common things. He loved the precarious22 bustle23 on Grub Street; he was of that adventurous24, buoyant stuff that rejects hum-drum security and a pelfed and padded life. He always insisted that America is the very shrine25 and fountain of poetry, and this country (which is indeed pathetically eager to take poets to its bosom) stirred his vivid imagination. The romance of the commuter26's train and the suburban27 street, of the delicatessen shop and the circus and the snowman in the yard—these were the familiar themes where he was rich and felicitous28. Many a commuter will remember his beautiful poem “The 12:45,” bespeaking29 the thrill we have all felt in the shabby midnight train that takes us home, yearning30 and weary, to the well-beloved hearth31:
And beautiful upon the hills
Subtly and certainly, I feel
That Glen Rock welcomes us to her.
And silent Ridgewood seems to stir
And smile, because she knows the train
Has brought her children back again.
We carry people home—and so
God speeds us, wheresoe'er we go.
The midnight train is slow and old,
But of it let this thing be told,
To its high honour be it said,
It carries weary folk to bed.[Pg 100]
To a man such as this, whose whole fervent34 and busy adventure was lit within by the lamplight and firelight of domestic passion, the war, with its broken homes and defiled35 sanctities, came as a personal affront36. Both to his craving37 for the glamour38 of such a colossal39 drama, and to his sense of what was most worshipful in human life, the call was irresistible40. Counsels of prudence41 and comfort were as nothing; the heart-shaking poetry of this nation's entry into an utterly42 unselfish war burned away all barriers. His life had been a fury of writing, but those who thought he had entered the war merely to make journalism43 about it were mistaken. Only a few weeks before his death he wrote:
To tell the truth, I am not interested in writing nowadays, except in so far as writing is the expression of something beautiful. And I see daily and nightly the expression of beauty in action instead of words, and I find it more satisfactory. I am a sergeant44 in the regimental intelligence section—the most fascinating work possible—more thrills in it than in any other branch, except, possibly, aviation. Wonderful life! But I don't know what I'll be able to do in civilian46 life—unless I become a fireman!
As journalist and lecturer Kilmer was copious47 and enthusiastic rather than deep. He found—a good deal to his own secret mirth—women's clubs and poetry societies sitting earnestly at his feet, expectant to hear ultimate truth on deep matters.[Pg 101] His humour prompted him to give them the ultimate truth they craved48. If his critical judgments49 were not always heavily documented or long pondered, they were entertaining and pleasantly put. The earnest world of literary societies and blue-hosed salons50 lay about his feet; he flashed in it merrily, chuckling51 inwardly as he found hundreds of worthy52 people hanging breathless on his words. A kind of Kilmer cult15 grew apace; he had his followers53 and his devotees. I mention these things because he would have been the first to chuckle54 over them. I do not think he would want to be remembered as having taken all that sort of thing too seriously. It was all a delicious game—part of the grand joke of living. Sometimes, among his friends, he would begin to pontificate in his platform manner. Then he would recall himself, and his characteristic grin would flood his face.
As a journalist, I say, he was copious; but as a poet his song was always prompted by a genuine gush55 of emotion. “A poet is only a glorified56 reporter,” he used to say; he took as his favourite assignment the happier precincts of the human heart. As he said of Belloc, a true poet will never write to order—not even to his own order. He sang because he heard life singing all about him. His three little books of poems have always been dear to lovers of honest simplicity57. And now their words will be lit henceforward by an inner and tender brightness—the[Pg 102] memory of a gallant58 boy who flung himself finely against the walls of life. Where they breached59 he broke through and waved his sword laughing. Where they hurled60 him back he turned away, laughing still.
II
Kilmer wrote from France, in answer to an inquiry61 as to his ideas about poetry, “All that poetry can be expected to do is to give pleasure of a noble sort to its readers.” He might have said “pleasure or pain of a noble sort.”
It is both pleasure and pain, of a very noble sort, that the reader will find in Robert Cortes Holliday's memoir62, which introduces the two volumes of Kilmer's poems, essays, and letters. The ultimate and eloquent63 tribute to Kilmer's rich, brave, and jocund64 personality is that it has raised up so moving a testament65 of friendship. Mr. Holliday's lively and tender essay is worthy to stand among the great memorials of brotherly affection that have enriched our speech. To say that Kilmer was not a Keats is not to say that the friendship that irradiates Mr. Holliday's memoir was less lovely than that of Keats and Severn, for instance. The beauty of any human intercourse66 is not measured by the plane on which it moves.
Pleasure and pain of a noble sort are woven in every fibre of this sparkling casting-up of the blithe[Pg 103] years. Pleasure indeed of the fullest, for the chronicle abounds67 in the surcharged hilarity68 and affectionate humour that we have grown to expect in any matters connected with Joyce Kilmer. The biographer dwells with loving and smiling particularity on the elvish phases of the young knight-errant. It is by the very likeness69 of his tender and glowing portrait that we find pleasure overflowing70 into pain—into a wincing71 recognition of destiny's unriddled ways with men. This memory was written out of a full heart, with the poignance72 that lies in every backward human gaze. It is only in the backward look that the landscape's contours lie revealed in their true form and perspective. It is only when we have lost what was most dear that we know fully73 what it meant. That is Fate's way with us: it cannot be amended74.
There will be no need for the most querulous appraiser75 to find fault with Mr. Holliday on the score of over-eulogy. He does not try to push sound carpentry or ready wit into genius. Fortune and his own impetuous onslaught upon life cast Kilmer into the r?le of hack76 journalist: he would have claimed no other title. Yet he adorned77 Grub Street (that most fascinating of all thorny78 ways) with gestures and music of his own. Out of his glowing and busy brain he drew matter that was never dull, never bitter or petty or slovenly79. In the fervent attack and counter-attack, shock and counter-shock[Pg 104] of his strenuous80 days he never forgot his secret loyalty81 to fine craftsmanship82. He kept half a dozen brightly coloured balls spinning in air at all times—verses, essays, reviews, lectures, introductions, interviews, anthologies, and what-not; yet each of these was deftly83 done. When he went to France and his days of hack work were over, when the necessities of life no longer threatened him, the journalistic habit fell away. It was never more than a garment, worn gracefully84, but still only what the tailors call a business suit.
In France, Kilmer wrote but a handful of pieces intended for publication, but at least one of them—the prose sketch85 “Holy Ireland”—showed his essential fibre. The comparative silence of his pen when he found himself face to face with war was a true expression. It bespoke86 the decent idealism that underlay87 the combats of a journalist wringing88 a living out of the tissues of a busy brain. The tender humour and quaint89 austerity of his homeward letters exhibit the man at his inmost. What could better the imaginative genius of the phrase in which he speaks of friendship developed by common dangers and hardships as “a fine, hearty90, roaring, mirthful sort of thing, like an open fire of whole pine trees in a giant's castle?”
The memoir and Kilmer's own letters admit us to see something of the spiritual phases of this man's life, whose soul found “happiness and quiet kind” in[Pg 105] the Roman Catholic faith. The most secret strengths and weaknesses that govern men's lives are strangely unknown to many of their intimates: one wonders how many of Kilmer's associates on the Times staff knew of his habit of stopping daily at the Church of the Holy Innocents, near the newspaper office, to pray. It was the sorrow of personal affliction that brought Kilmer to the Catholic Church. Shortly after being received into that communion he wrote:
Just off Broadway on the way from the Hudson Tube Station to the Times Building, there is a church called the Church of the Holy Innocents. Since it is in the heart of the Tenderloin, this name is strangely appropriate—for there surely is need of youth and innocence91. Well, every morning for months I stopped on my way to the office and prayed in this church for faith. When faith did come, it came, I think, by way of my little paralyzed daughter. Her lifeless hands led me; I think her tiny feet still know beautiful paths.
Mr. Holliday does well to point out that Kilmer was almost unique in this country as a representative of the Bellocian School of Catholic journalism, in which piety92 and mirth dwell so comfortably together; though he might have mentioned T. A. Daly as an older and subtler master of devout merriment, dipping in his own inkwell rather than in any imported bottles. It is to Belloc, of course, and to Gilbert[Pg 106] Chesterton, that one must go to learn the secret of Kilmer's literary manner. Yet, as Holliday affirms, the similarity is due as much to an affinity93 of mind with these Englishmen as to any eagerness to imitate. Kilmer was like them in being essentially94 a humorist. One glance at his face, with its glowing red-brown eyes (the colour of port wine), and the twitching95 in-drawn corners of the mouth, gave the observer an impression of benignant drollery96. Mr. Holliday well says: “People have made very creditable reputations as humorists who never wrote anything like as humorous essays as those of Joyce Kilmer. They fairly reek97 with the joy of life.”
“He that lives by the pen shall perish by the pen,” the biographer tells us, quoting James Huneker. “For a sapling poet, within a few short years and by the hard business of words, to attain8 to a secretary and a butler and a family of, at length, four children, is a modern Arabian Nights Tale.” Aye, indeed! But Joyce Kilmer will have as genuine a claim on remembrance by reason of his friends' love as in anything his own hand penned. And what an encircling, almost paternal98, gentleness there is in the picture of the young poet as a salesman at Scribner's bookstore:
His smile, never far away, when it came was winning, charming. It broke like spring sunshine, it was so fresh and warm and clear. And there was [Pg 107]noticeable then in his eyes a light, a quiet glow, which marked him as a spirit not to be forgotten. So tenderly boyish was he in effect that his confrères among the book clerks accepted with difficulty the story that he was married. When it was told that he had a son they gasped99 their incredulity. And when one day this extraordinary elfin sprite remarked that at the time of his honeymoon100 he had had a beard they felt (I remember) that the world was without power to astonish them further.
And even more striking is what is implied in the narrative101: that when this “elfin sprite,” this gently nurtured102 young man of bookish pursuits, took up the art of war, he gloried in his association with a rip-roaring regiment45 recruited mainly from hard-handed fellows of the type we may call (with no atom of disrespect) roughnecks. Hardships and exertions103 familiar to them were new to him, but he set himself to win their love and respect, and did so. He was not content until he had found his way into the most exhausting and hazardous104 branch of the whole job. He said, again and again, that he would rather be a sergeant with the 69th than a lieutenant105 with any other outfit106. There was a heart of heroism107 in the “elfin sprite.” The same dashing insouciance108 that dictated the weekly article for his paper when in hospital with three broken ribs after being run down by a train was hardened and steeled in the sergeant who nightly tore his uniform into ribbons by crawling out through the barbed wire.[Pg 108]
Laughter and comradeship and hearty meals clustered about Kilmer: wherever he touched the grindstone of life there flew up a merry shower of sparks. There is convincing testimony109 to the courage and beauty that lay quiet at the heart of this singer who said that the poet is only a glorified reporter, and wished he had written “Casey at the Bat.”
Let us spare his memory the glib110 and customary dishonesty that says “He died as he would have wished to.” No man wishes to die—at least, no poet does. To part with the exhilarating bustle and tumult111, the blueness of the sky, the sunlight that tingles112 on well-known street corners, the plumber's bills and the editor's checks, the mirths of fellowship and the joys of homecoming when lamps are lit—all this is too close a fibre to be stripped easily from the naked heart. But the poet must go where the greatest songs are singing. Perhaps he finds, after all, that life and death are part of the same rhyme.[Pg 109]
TALES OF TWO CITIES
I. PHILADELPHIA
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proofread
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| vt.校正，校对 | |
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pang
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| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
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unlimited
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| adj.无限的，不受控制的，无条件的 | |
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complexities
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| 复杂性(complexity的名词复数)； 复杂的事物 | |
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zestful
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| adj.有滋味 | |
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attained
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的过去式和过去分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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attain
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| vt.达到，获得，完成 | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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quench
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| vt.熄灭，扑灭；压制 | |
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civilized
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| a.有教养的，文雅的 | |
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cipher
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| n.零；无影响力的人；密码 | |
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dictated
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| v.大声讲或读( dictate的过去式和过去分词 )；口授；支配；摆布 | |
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ribs
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| n.肋骨( rib的名词复数 )；（船或屋顶等的）肋拱；肋骨状的东西；（织物的）凸条花纹 | |
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cult
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| n.异教，邪教；时尚，狂热的崇拜 | |
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daunted
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| 使（某人）气馁，威吓( daunt的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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vein
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| n.血管，静脉；叶脉，纹理；情绪；vt.使成脉络 | |
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prate
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secrecies
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| 保密（secrecy的复数形式） | |
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sanctuaries
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| n.避难所( sanctuary的名词复数 )；庇护；圣所；庇护所 | |
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devout
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| adj.虔诚的，虔敬的，衷心的 (n.devoutness) | |
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precarious
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| adj.不安定的，靠不住的；根据不足的 | |
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bustle
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adventurous
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| adj.爱冒险的；惊心动魄的，惊险的，刺激的 | |
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shrine
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commuter
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| n.(尤指市郊之间)乘公交车辆上下班者 | |
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suburban
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| adj.城郊的，在郊区的 | |
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felicitous
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| adj.恰当的，巧妙的；n.恰当，贴切 | |
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bespeaking
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| v.预定( bespeak的现在分词 )；订（货）；证明；预先请求 | |
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yearning
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| a.渴望的；向往的；怀念的 | |
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hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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fulfills
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burnished
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| adj.抛光的，光亮的v.擦亮（金属等），磨光( burnish的过去式和过去分词 )；被擦亮，磨光 | |
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fervent
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| adj.热的，热烈的，热情的 | |
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defiled
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| v.玷污( defile的过去式和过去分词 )；污染；弄脏；纵列行进 | |
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affront
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| n./v.侮辱，触怒 | |
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craving
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| n.渴望,热望 | |
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glamour
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| n.魔力，魅力；vt.迷住 | |
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colossal
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| adj.异常的，庞大的 | |
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irresistible
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| adj.非常诱人的，无法拒绝的，无法抗拒的 | |
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prudence
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| n.谨慎，精明，节俭 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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journalism
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| n.新闻工作，报业 | |
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sergeant
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| n.警官，中士 | |
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regiment
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| n.团，多数，管理；v.组织，编成团，统制 | |
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civilian
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| adj.平民的，民用的，民众的 | |
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copious
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| adj.丰富的，大量的 | |
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craved
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| 渴望，热望( crave的过去式 )； 恳求，请求 | |
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judgments
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| 判断( judgment的名词复数 )； 鉴定； 评价； 审判 | |
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salons
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| n.（营业性质的）店( salon的名词复数 )；厅；沙龙（旧时在上流社会女主人家的例行聚会或聚会场所）；（大宅中的）客厅 | |
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chuckling
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| 轻声地笑( chuckle的现在分词 ) | |
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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followers
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| 追随者( follower的名词复数 )； 用户； 契据的附面； 从动件 | |
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chuckle
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| vi.／n.轻声笑，咯咯笑 | |
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gush
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| v.喷，涌；滔滔不绝(说话)；n.喷，涌流；迸发 | |
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glorified
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| 美其名的，变荣耀的 | |
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simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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breached
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| 攻破( breach的现在分词 )； 破坏，违反 | |
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hurled
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| v.猛投，用力掷( hurl的过去式和过去分词 )；大声叫骂 | |
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inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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memoir
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| n.[pl.]回忆录，自传；记事录 | |
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eloquent
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| adj.雄辩的，口才流利的；明白显示出的 | |
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jocund
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| adj.快乐的，高兴的 | |
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testament
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| n.遗嘱；证明 | |
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intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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abounds
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| v.大量存在，充满，富于( abound的第三人称单数 ) | |
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hilarity
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| n.欢乐；热闹 | |
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likeness
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| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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overflowing
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| n. 溢出物,溢流 adj. 充沛的，充满的 动词overflow的现在分词形式 | |
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wincing
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| 赶紧避开，畏缩( wince的现在分词 ) | |
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poignance
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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Amended
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| adj. 修正的 动词amend的过去式和过去分词 | |
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appraiser
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| n.评价者，鉴定者，估价官 | |
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hack
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| n.劈，砍，出租马车；v.劈，砍，干咳 | |
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adorned
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| [计]被修饰的 | |
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thorny
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| adj.多刺的，棘手的 | |
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slovenly
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| adj.懒散的，不整齐的，邋遢的 | |
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strenuous
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| adj.奋发的，使劲的；紧张的；热烈的，狂热的 | |
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81
loyalty
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| n.忠诚，忠心 | |
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82
craftsmanship
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| n.手艺 | |
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83
deftly
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| adv.灵巧地，熟练地，敏捷地 | |
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gracefully
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| ad.大大方方地；优美地 | |
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85
sketch
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| n.草图；梗概；素描；v.素描；概述 | |
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86
bespoke
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| adj.（产品）订做的；专做订货的v.预定( bespeak的过去式 )；订（货）；证明；预先请求 | |
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87
underlay
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| v.位于或存在于（某物）之下( underlie的过去式 )；构成…的基础（或起因），引起n.衬垫物 | |
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wringing
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| 淋湿的，湿透的 | |
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quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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piety
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| n.虔诚，虔敬 | |
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affinity
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| n.亲和力，密切关系 | |
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essentially
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| adv.本质上，实质上，基本上 | |
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twitching
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| n.颤搐 | |
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drollery
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| n.开玩笑，说笑话；滑稽可笑的图画（或故事、小戏等） | |
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reek
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| v.发出臭气；n.恶臭 | |
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paternal
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| adj.父亲的，像父亲的，父系的，父方的 | |
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gasped
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| v.喘气( gasp的过去式和过去分词 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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honeymoon
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| n.蜜月（假期）；vi.度蜜月 | |
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101
narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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102
nurtured
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| 养育( nurture的过去式和过去分词 )； 培育； 滋长； 助长 | |
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103
exertions
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| n.努力( exertion的名词复数 )；费力；（能力、权力等的）运用；行使 | |
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hazardous
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| adj.(有)危险的，冒险的；碰运气的 | |
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lieutenant
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| n.陆军中尉，海军上尉；代理官员，副职官员 | |
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106
outfit
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| n.（为特殊用途的）全套装备，全套服装 | |
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107
heroism
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| n.大无畏精神，英勇 | |
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108
insouciance
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| n.漠不关心 | |
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109
testimony
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| n.证词；见证，证明 | |
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glib
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| adj.圆滑的，油嘴滑舌的 | |
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111
tumult
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| n.喧哗；激动，混乱；吵闹 | |
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112
tingles
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| n.刺痛感( tingle的名词复数 )v.有刺痛感( tingle的第三人称单数 ) | |
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