《Synge And The Ireland Of His Time》第4章

e　performances　of　old　classics　but　did　not　create　（he　disliked　modern　drama　for　its　sterility　of　speech；　and　perhaps　ignored　it）　and　that　we　would　create　nothing　if　we　did　not　give　all　our　thoughts　to　ireland。
yet　in　ireland　he　loved　only　what　was　wild　in　its　people；　and　in　the　grey　and　wintry　sides　of　many　glens。　all　the　rest；　all　that　one　reasoned　over；　fought　for；　read　of　in　leading　articles；　all　that　came　from　education；　all　that　came　down　from　young　ireland？？though　for　this　he　had　not　lacked　a　little　sympathy？？first　wakened　in　him　perhaps　that　irony　which　runs　through　all　he　wrote；　but　once　awakened；　he　made　it　turn　its　face　upon　the　whole　of　life。　the　women　quarrelling　in　the　cave　would　not　have　amused　him；　if　something　in　his　nature　had　not　looked　out　on　most　disputes；　even　those　wherein　he　himself　took　sides；　with　a　mischievous　wisdom。　he　told　me　once　that　when　he　lived　in　some　peasants　house；　he　tried　to　make　those　about　him　forget　that　he　was　there；　and　it　is　certain　that　he　was　silent　in　any　crowded　room。　it　is　possible　that　low　vitality　helped　him　to　be　observant　and　contemplative；　and　made　him　dislike；　even　in　solitude；　those　thoughts　which　unite　us　to　others；　much　as　we　all　dislike；　when　fatigue　or　illness　has　sharpened　the　nerves；　hoardings　covered　with　advertisements；　the　fronts　of　big　theatres；　big　london　hotels；　and　all　architecture　which　has　been　made　to　impress　the　crowd。　what　blindness　did　for　homer；　lameness　for　hephaestus；　asceticism　for　any　saint　you　will；　bad　health　did　for　him　by　making　him　ask　no　more　of　life　than　that　it　should　keep　him　living；　and　above　all　perhaps　by　concentrating　his　imagination　upon　one　thought；　health　itself。　i　think　that　all　noble　things　are　the　result　of　warfare；　great　nations　and　classes；　of　warfare　in　the　visible　world；　great　poetry　and　philosophy；　of　invisible　warfare；　the　division　of　a　mind　within　itself；　a　victory；　the　sacrifice　of　a　man　to　himself。　i　am　certain　that　my　friends　noble　art；　so　full　of　passion　and　heroic　beauty；　is　the　victory　of　a　man　who　in　poverty　and　sickness　created　from　the　delight　of　expression；　and　in　the　contemplation　that　is　born　of　the　minute　and　delicate　arrangement　of　images；　happiness；　and　health　of　mind。　some　early　poems　have　a　morbid　melancholy；　and　he　himself　spoke　of　early　work　he　had　destroyed　as　morbid；　for　as　yet　the　craftmanship　was　not　fine　enough　to　bring　the　artists　joy　which　is　of　one　substance　with　that　of　sanctity。　in　one　poem　he　waits　at　some　street　corner　for　a　friend；　a　woman　perhaps；　and　while　he　waits　and　gradually　understands　that　nobody　is　ing；　sees　two　funerals　and　shivers　at　the　future；　and　in　another　written　on　his　25th　birthday；　he　wonders　if　the　25　years　to　e　shall　be　as　evil　as　those　gone　by。　later　on；　he　can　see　himself　as　but　a　part　of　the　spectacle　of　the　world　and　mix　into　all　he　sees　that　flavour　of　extravagance；　or　of　humour；　or　of　philosophy；　that　makes　one　understand　that　he　contemplates　even　his　own　death　as　if　it　were　anothers；　and　finds　in　his own　destiny　but　as　it　were　a　projection　through　a　burning　glass　of　that　general　to　men。　there　is　in　the　creative　joy　an　acceptance　of　what　life　brings；　because　we　have　understood　the　beauty　of　what　it　brings；　or　a　hatred　of　death　for　what　it　takes　away；　which　arouses　within　us；　through　some　sympathy　perhaps　with　all　other　men；　an　energy　so　noble；　so　powerful；　that　we　laugh　aloud　and　mock；　in　the　terror　or　the　sweetness　of　our　exaltation；　at　death　and　oblivion。
in　no　modern　writer　that　has　written　of　irish　life　before　him；　except　it　may　be　miss　edgeworth　in　castle　rackrent；　was　there　anything　to　change　a　mans　thought　about　the　world　or　stir　his　moral　nature；　for　they　but　play　with　pictures；　persons；　and　events；　that　whether　well　or　ill　observed　are　but　an　amusement　for　the　mind　where　it　escapes　from　meditation；　a　childs　show　that　makes　the　fables　of　his　art　as　significant　by　contrast　as　some　procession　painted　on　an　egyptian　wall；　for　in　these　fables；　an　intelligence；　on　which　the　tragedy　of　the　world　had　been　thrust　in　so　few　years；　that　life　had　no　time　to　brew　her　sleepy　drug；　has　spoken　of　the　moods　that　are　the　expression　of　its　wisdom。　all　minds　that　have　a　wisdom　e　of　tragic　reality　seem　morbid　to　those　that　are　accustomed　to　writers　who　have　not　faced　reality　at　all；　just　as　the　saints；　with　that　obscure　night　of　the　soul；　which　fell　so　certainly　that　they　numbered　it　among　spiritual　states；　one　among　other　ascending　steps；　seem　morbid　to　the　rationalist　and　the　old？fashioned　protestant　controversialist。　the　thought　of　journalists；　like　that　of　the　irish　novelists；　is　neither　healthy　nor　unhealthy；　for　it　has　not　risen　to　that　state　where　either　is　possible；　nor　should　we　call　it　happy；　for　who　would　have　sought　happiness；　if　happiness　were　not　the　supreme　attainment　of　man；　in　heroic　toils；　in　the　cell　of　the　ascetic；　or　imagined　it　above　the　cheerful　newspapers；　above　the　clouds？
。。。！
Synge　And　The　Ireland　Of　His　TimeVIII
小说
not　that　synge　brought　out　of　the　struggle　with　himself　any　definite　philosophy；　for　philosophy　in　the　mon　meaning　of　the　word　is　created　out　of　an　anxiety　for　sympathy　or　obedience；　and　he　was　that　rare；　that　distinguished；　that　most　noble　thing；　which　of　all　things　still　of　the　world　is　nearest　to　being　sufficient　to　itself；　the　pure　artist。　sir　philip　sidney　plains　of　those　who　could　hear　sweet　tunes　（by　which　he　understands　could　look　upon　his　lady）　and　not　be　stirred　to　ravishing　delight。
or　if　they　do　delight　therein；　yet　are　so　closed　with　wit；　as　with　sententious　lips　to　set　a　title　vain　on　it；　oh　let　them　hear　these　sacred　tunes；　and　learn　in　wonders　schools　to　be；　in　things　past　bonds　of　wit；　fools　if　they　be　not　fools！
ireland　for　three　generations　has　been　like　those　churlish　logicians。　everything　is　argued　over；　everything　has　to　take　its　trial　before　the　dull　sense　and　the　hasty　judgment；　and　the　character　of　the　nation　has　so　changed　that　it　hardly　keeps　but　among　country　people；　or　where　some　family　tradition　is　still　stubborn；　those　lineaments　that　made　borrow　cry　out　as　he　came　from　among　the　irish　monks；　his　friends　and　entertainers　for　all　his　spanish　bible　scattering；　oh；　ireland；　mot