CHAPTER II

THE WORLD OF REALITY
The practical man may justly observ e at this point dial the world of single vision is die' onTyworTd he knows : that xt appeaj^to lum to be real, 'solid, and self-consistent : and that until the existence — at least, the probability — of other planes of reality is made dear to him, all talk of uniting with them is mere moonshine, which confirms his opinion of mysticism as a game fit only for idle women and inferior poets. Plainly, then, it is the first business of the missionary to create, if he can, some feeling of dissatisfaction with the world within which the practical man has always lived and acted ; to suggest something of its fragmentary and subjective char- acter. We turn back therefore to a further examina- tion of the truism — so obvious to those who are philosophers, so exasperating to those who are not — that man dwells, under normal conditions, in all world of imagination rather than a world of fact J I that the universe in which he lives and at which he *•
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looks is but a construction which the mind has made from some few amongst the wealth materials at its disposal.
The relation of this universe to the world of fact is not unlike the relation between a tapestry picture and the scene which it imitates. You, practical ( man, are obliged to weave your image of the outei world upon the hard warp of your own mentality f which perpetually imposes its own convention, anc I checks the free representation of life. As a tapestry! picture, however various and full of meaning, isf ultimately reducible to little squares ; so the world of common sense is ultimately reducible to a series of static elements conditioned by the r^achiiKrfy of Subtle curves, swift movement, delicate
that machinery^ cannot represent. It
’ i y^eaves them out. From the countless suggestions, I the tangle of many-coloured wools which the real world presents to you, you snatch one here and there. Of these '^^weavSltdgether those which are the most useful, the most obvious, the most often re- peated : which make a tidy and coherent pattern when seen on the right side. Shut up with this symbolic picture, you soon drop into die habit of
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behaving to it as though it were not a representation but a thing. On it you fix your attention ; with it you " unite." Yet, did you look at the wrong side, at the many short ends, the clumsy joins and patches, this simple philosophy might be disturbed. You would be forced to acknowledge the conventional character of the picture you have made so cleverly, the wholesale waste of material involved in the
weaving of it : for only a few amongst the wealth o: impressions we receive are seized and incorporatec into our picture of the world. Further, it mighi occur to you that a slight alteration in the rhythm oi the sensel'would place at your disposal a complete new range of material ; opening your eyes and ears te sounds, colours, and movements now inaudible anc invisible, removing from your universe those whicl you now regard as part of the established order o: things. Even the strands which you have made use o ' might have been combined in some other way ; wit! disastrous results to the “ world of common sense," yet without any diminution of their own reality^J^ Nor can you regard these strands themselves as ultimate. As the most prudent of logicians might i venture to deduce from a skein of wool the probable
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existence of a sheep; so you, from the raw stuff of perception, may venture to deduce a universe which transcends the reproductive powers of your loom. Even the camera of the photographer, more apt at contemplation than the mind of man, has shown us how limited are these powers in some directions, and enlightened us as to a few of the cruder errors of the person who accepts its products at face-value ; or, as he would say, believes his own eyes. It has shown us, for instance, that the galloping race-horse, with legs stretched out as we are used to see it, is a mythical animal, probably founded on the mental image of a running dog. No horse has ever galloped thus : but its real action is too quick for us, and we explain it to ourselves as something resembling the more deliberate dog-action which we have caught and registered as it passed. The plain man's universe is full of race-horses which are really run- ning dogs: of conventional waves, first seen in pictures and then imagined upon the sea: of
( psychological situations taken from books and applied to human life : of racial peculiarities genera- lised from insufficient data, and then “ discovered ” in actuality : of theological diagrams and scientific
S
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“ laws," flung upon the background of eternity as the magic lantern's image is reflected on the screen.
The coloured scene at which you look so trustfully owes, in fact, much of its character to the activities of the seer : to that process of thought — concept — cogitation, from which Keats prayed with so great an ardour to escape, when he exclaimed in words which will seem to you, according to the temper of your mind, either an invitation to the higher laziness or one of the most profound aspirations of the soul, " O for a life of eensadom rather tha^ thoughts 1 ” He felt— as all the poets have felt with him— that another, lovelier world, tinted with un- imaginable wonders, alive with ultimate music awaited those who could free themselves from th fetters of the mind, lay down the shuttle and the weaver's comb, and reach out beyond the conceptual image to intuitive contact with the Thing. f
There are certain happy accidents which have the power of inducting man for a moment into this richer and more vital world. These stop, as one old mystic said, the “ wheel of his imagination,” the dreadful energy of his image-making power weaving up and transmuting the incoming messages of sense.
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They snatch him from the loom and place him, in the naked simplicity of his spirit, face to face with that Other than himself whence the materials of his industry have come. In these hours human coop stiousness ascends from thought to contemplation becomes at least aware of the world in which mystics dwell ; and perceives for an instant, as S^ Augustine did, “ theljght t hat never the eye of the soul, above the intelligence, experience might be tilled in essence “ absolutel sensation/' __ It js a pure feeling-s tate ; in whi ch i fragmentary COgtaCtS with Rsality achH-VCd tllltWJ the senses are merged in a wholeness of co jnmu which feels and knows all at once, yet in a way ; the reason can never understand, that Totality (>f_ which fragments are known by the lover, musician, and the artist.
JfjthejdQors-of perception were cleansed, said Blake, everything would appear to man as it is —
Infinite i the dnnrg nf- perception JHt hung
with the^oobwebs of th ought; prej ud i ce, -cowardice, sloth. Eternity is with us, inviting our contempla- tion perpetually, but we are too frightened, lazy, and suspicious to respond : too arrogant to still our
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thought, and let divine sensation have its way. It needs industry and goodwill if we would make that transition: for the process involves a veritable spring-cleaning of the soul, a turning-out and re- arrangement of our mental furniture, a wide open- ing of dosed windows, that the notes of the wild birds beyond our garden may come to us fully charged with wonder and freshness, and drown with their music the noise of the gramaphone within. Those who do this, discover that they have lived in a stuffy world, whilst their inheritance was a world of morning-glory; where every tit-mouse is a celestial messenger, and every thrusting bud is charged with the full significance of life.
There will be many who feel a certain scepticism as to the possibility of the undertaking here sug- gested to them ; a prudent unwillingness to sacrifice their old comfortably upholstered universe, on the mere promise that they will receive a new heaven and a new earth in exchange. These careful one: may like to remind themselves that the vision of th world presented to us by all the great artists anc poets — those creatures whose very existence woulc 1 seem so strange to us, were we not accustomed to
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them — perpetually demonstrates the many-graded character of human consciousness ; the new worlds j which await it, once it frees itself from the tyranny of those labour-saving contrivances with which it usually works. Leaving on one side the more subtle apprehensions which we call “ spiritual," even the pictures of the old Chinese draughtsmen and the modem impressionists, of Watteau and of Turner, of Manet, Degas, and C&anne ; the poems of Blake, Wordsworth, Shelley, Whitman — these, and countless others, assure you that their creators have enjoyed direct communion, not with some ^ vague world of fancy, but with a visible natural order which you have never known. These have seized and woven into their pictures strands which never presented themselves to you; significant forms which elude you, tones and relations to which you are blind, living facts for which your conven- tional world provides no place. They prove by their works that Blake was right when he said that “ a fool sees not the s ame tree tha t a wise man sees " ; and that psychologlstsT insisting on the selective' action of the mind, &e fact that o ur preconceptions govern the character of our universe, doTnirtgach
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die most demonstrable of truths. Did you take them seriously, as you should, their ardent reports might well disgust you with the dull and narrow character of your own consciousness.
What is it, then, which distinguishes the out- look of great poets and artists from the arro- gant subjectivism of common sense S' Innocence and humility distinguish it. These persons pre- judge nothing, criticise nothing To some extent, their attitude to the universe is that of children : and because this is so, they participate to that ex- tent in die Heaven of Reality. According to their measure, they have fulfilled Keats' aspiration, they do live a life in which the emphasis lies on sensation rather than on thought : for the state which he then struggled to describe was that ideal state of pure . receptivity, of perfect correspondence with the j essence of things, of which all artists have a share, ] and which a few great mystics appear to have L possessed — not indeed in its entirety, but to an J extent which made them, as they say, "one with/ the Reality of things.” The greater the artist is, the wider and deeper is the range of this pure sensation j the more sharply he is aware of the torrent of life
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and loveliness, the rich profusion of possible) beauties and shapes. He always wants to press 1 deeper and deeper, to let the span of his perception spread wider and wider; till he unites with the whole of that Reality which he feels all about him, and of which his own life is a part. He is always tending, in fact, to pass over from the artistic to the , mystical state. In artistic experience, then, in the artist's perennial effort to actualise the ideal which Keats expressed, we may find a point of departure for our exploration of the contemplative life. * What would it mean for a soul that truly captured! it ; this life in which the emphasis should lie on the immediate percepts, the messages the world pours in on us, instead of on the sophisticated universe into which our clever brains transmute them i Plainly, it would mean the achievement of a new universe, a new order of reality : escape from the terrible museum-like world of daily life, where everything is classified and labelled, and all the ’ graded fluid facts which have no label are ignored. It would mean an innocence of eye and innocence of ear impossible for us to conceive ; the impas- sioned contemplation of pure form, freed from all
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the meaning* with which the mind has draped and disguised it ; the recapturing of the lost mysteries of touch and fragrance, most wonderful amongst t£e avenues of sense. It would mean the exc hanging 'of the neat conceptual world our thoughts build up, fenced in by the solid ramparts of the possible, for die inconceivable richness of that unwalled world from which we have subtracted it. It would mean that we should receive from every flower, not merely a beautiful image to which the label “ flower ” has been affixed, but the full impact of its unimaginable beauty and wonder, the direct sensation of life having communion with life : that the scents of ceasing rain, the voice of trees, the deep softness of the kitten's fur, the acrid touch of sorrel on the tongue, should be in themselves profound, complete, and simple experiences, calling forth simplicity of response in our souls.
Thus understood, the life of pure sensation is ther meat and drink of poetry, and one of the most/ accessible avenues to that union with Reality whidj the mystic declares to us as the very object of life! But the poet must take that living stuff direct from the field and river, without sophistication, without
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criticism, as the life of the soul is taken direct from the altar ; with an awe that admits not of analysis. He must not subject it to the cooking, filtering pro- cess of the brain. It is because he knows how to elude this dreadful sophistication of Reality, because his attitude to the universe is governed by the supreme artistic virtues of humility and love, that poetry is what it is : and I include in the sweep of poetic art the coloured poetry of the painter, and the wordless poetry of the musician and the dancer too.
At this point the critical reader will certainly offer an objection. “ You have been inviting me,” he will say, “ to do nothing more or less than trust my senses : and this too on the authority of those impracticable dreamers the poets. Now it is notori- ous that our senses deceive us. Every one knows that; and even your own remarks have already suggested it. How, then, can a wholesale and un- critical acceptance of my sensations help me to unite with Reality i Many of these sensations we share with the animals: in some, the animals obviously surpass us. Will you suggest that my terrier, smelling his way through an unco-ordinated universe, is a better mystic than ”
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To this I reply, that the terrier's contacts with the world are doubtless crude and imperfect ; yet he has indeed preserved a directness of apprehen- sion which you have lost. He gets, and responds! y to, the real smell ; not a notion or a name. Cet-l t tainly the senses, when taken at face-value, do deceive us : yet the deception resides not so much in them, as in that conceptual world which we insist on building up from their reports, and for which we make them responsible. They deceive us less when we receive these reports uncooked and unclassified, / as simple and direct experiences. Then, behind the ' special and imperfect stammerings which we call colour, sound, fragrance, and the rest, we some- times discern a whole fact^-at once divinely simple and infinitely various — from which these partial messages proceed ; and which seeks as it were to utter itself in them. And we feel, when this is so, that the fact thus glimpsed is of an immense signifi- cance ; imparting to that aspect of the world which we are able to perceive all the significance, all the character which it possesses. The more of the artist there is in us, the more intense that signifi- cance, that character will seem : the more complete.
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too, will be our conviction that our uneasiness, the vagueness of our reactions to things, would be cured could we reach and unite with the fact, instead of our notion of it. And it is just such an act of union, reached through the clarified channels of sense and unadulterated by the content of thought, which the great artist or poet achieves.
We seem in these words to have come far from the mystic, and that contemplative consciousness wherewith he ascends to the contact of Truth. As a matter of fact, we are merely considering that con- sciousness in its most natural and accessible form u for contemplation is, on the one hand, the essential! activity of all artists ; on the other, the art through which those who choose to learn and practise ii may share in some fragmentary degree, according to their measure, the special experience of the mystic and the poet. By it they may achieve that virginal outlook upon things, that celestial power of com- munion with veritable life, which comes when that which we call “ sensation ” is freed from the tyranny of that which we call “ thought." The artist is no more and no less than a contemplative who has learned to express himself, and who tells
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his love in colour, speech, or sound : the mystic, upon one side of his nature, is an artist of a special and exalted kind, who tries to express something of the revelation he has received, mediates between Reality and the race. In the game of give and take which goes on between the human consciousness and the external world, both have learned to put the emphasis upon the message from without, rather than on their own reaction to and rearrangement of it. Both have exchanged the false imagina- tion which draws the sensations and intuitions of the self into its own narrow circle, and there distorts and transforms them, for the true imagination which pours itself out, eager, adventurous, and self- giving, towards the greater universe.
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