《Synge And The Ireland Of His Time》第9章

not　as　it　seems　to　eyes　habit　has　made　dull；　but　as　we　were　adam　and　this　the　first　morning；　and　when　the　new　image　bees　as　little　strange　as　the　old　we　shall　stay　with　him；　because　he　has；　beside　the　strangeness；　not　strange　to　him；　that　made　us　share　his　vision；　sincerity　that　makes　us　share　his　feeling。
to　speak　of　ones　emotions　without　fear　or　moral　ambition；　to　e　out　from　under　the　shadow　of　other　mens　minds；　to　forget　their　needs；　to　be　utterly　oneself；　that　is　all　the　muses　care　for。　villon；　pander；　thief；　and　man？slayer；　is　as　immortal　in　their　eyes；　and　illustrates　in　the　cry　of　his　ruin　as　great　a　truth　as　dante　in　abstract　ecstasy；　and　touches　our　passion　more。　all　art　is　the　disengaging　of　a　soul　from　place　and　history；　its　suspension　in　a　beautiful　or　terrible　light；　to　await　the　judgement；　and　yet；　because　all　its　days　were　a　last　day；　judged　already。　it　may　show　the　crimes　of　italy　as　dante　did；　or　greek　mythology　like　keats；　or　kerry　and　galway　villages；　and　so　vividly　that　ever　after　i　shall　look　at　all　with　like　eyes；　and　yet　i　know　that　cino　da　pistoia　thought　dante　unjust；　that　keats　knew　no　greek；　that　those　country　men　and　women　are　neither　so　lovable　nor　so　lawless　as　mine　author　sung　it　me；　that　i　have　added　to　my　being；　not　my　knowledge。
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Synge　And　The　Ireland　Of　His　TimeXV
（／／小｜//说//网）
i　wrote　the　most　of　these　thoughts　in　my　diary　on　the　coast　of　normandy；　and　as　i　finished　came　upon　mont　saint　michel；　and　thereupon　doubted　for　a　day　the　foundation　of　my　school。　here　i　saw　the　places　of　assembly；　those　cloisters　on　the　rocks　summit；　the　church；　the　great　halls　where　monks；　or　knights；　or　men　at　arms　sat　at　meals；　beautiful　from　ornament　or　proportion。　i　remembered　ordinances　of　the　popes　forbidding　drinking？　cups　with　stems　of　gold　to　these　monks　who　had　but　a　bare　dormitory　to　sleep　in。　even　when　imagining；　the　individual　had　taken　more　from　his　fellows　and　his　fathers　than　he　gave；　one　man　finishing　what　another　had　begun；　and　all　that　majestic　fantasy；　seeming　more　of　egypt　than　of　christendom；　spoke　nothing　to　the　solitary　soul；　but　seemed　to　announce　whether　past　or　yet　to　e　an　heroic　temper　of　social　men；　a　bondage　of　adventure　and　of　wisdom。　then　i　thought　more　patiently　and　i　saw　that　what　had　made　these　but　as　one　and　given　them　for　a　thousand　years　the　miracles　of　their　shrine　and　temporal　rule　by　land　and　sea；　was　not　a　condescension　to　knave　or　dolt；　an　impoverishment　of　the　mon　thought　to　make　it　serviceable　and　easy；　but　a　dead　language　and　a　munion　in　whatever；　even　to　the　greatest　saint；　is　of　incredible　difficulty。　only　by　the　substantiation　of　the　soul　i　thought；　whether　in　literature　or　in　sanctity；　can　we　e　upon　those　agreements；　those　separations　from　all　else　that　fasten　men　together　lastingly；　for　while　a　popular　and　picturesque　burns　and　scott　can　but　create　a　province；　and　our　irish　cries　and　grammars　serve　some　passing　need；　homer；　shakespeare；　dante；　goethe　and　all　who　travel　in　their　road　with　however　poor　a　stride；　define　races　and　create　everlasting　loyalties。　synge；　like　all　of　the　great　kin；　sought　for　the　race；　not　through　the　eyes　or　in　history；　or　even　in　the　future；　but　where　those　monks　found　god；　in　the　depths　of　the　mind；　and　in　all　art　like　his；　although　it　does　not　mand？？indeed　because　it　does　not？？may　lie　the　roots　of　far？branching　events。　only　that　which　does　not　teach；　which　does　not　cry　out；　which　does　not　persuade；　which　does　not　condescend；　which　does　not　explain　is　irresistible。　it　is　made　by　men　who　expressed　themselves　to　the　full；　and　it　works　through　the　best　minds；　whereas　the　external　and　picturesque　and　declamatory　writers；　that　they　may　create　kilts　and　bagpipes　and　newspapers　and　guide？books；　leave　the　best　minds　empty；　and　in　ireland　and　scotland　england　runs　into　the　hole。　it　has　no　array　of　arguments　and　maxims；　because　the　great　and　the　simple　（and　the　muses　have　never　known　which　of　the　two　most　pleases　them）　need　their　deliberate　thought　for　the　days　work；　and　yet　will　do　it　worse　if　they　have　not　grown　into　or　found　about　them；　most　perhaps　in　the　minds　of　women；　the　nobleness　of　emotion；　associated　with　the　scenery　and　events　of　their　country；　by　those　great　poets；　who　have　dreamed　it　in　solitude；　and　who　to　this　day　in　europe　are　creating　indestructible　spiritual　races；　like　those　religion　has　created　in　the　east。
w。　b。　yeats。
september　14th。　1910。
？？
WITH　SYNGE　IN　CONNEMARA
（／小｜说｜网）
i　had　often　spent　a　day　walking　with　john　synge；　but　a　year　or　two　ago　i　travelled　for　a　month　alone　through　the　west　of　ireland　with　him。　he　was　the　best　panion　for　a　roadway　any　one　could　have；　always　ready　and　always　the　same；　a　bold　walker；　up　hill　and　down　dale；　in　the　hot　sun　and　the　pelting　rain。　i　remember　a　deluge　on　the　erris　peninsula；　where　we　lay　among　the　sand　hills　and　at　his　suggestion　heaped　sand　upon　ourselves　to　try　and　keep　dry。
when　we　started　on　our　journey；　as　the　train　steamed　out　of　dublin；　synge　said：　now　the　elder　of　us　two　should　be　in　mand　on　this　trip。　so　we　pared　notes　and　i　found　that　he　was　two　months　older　than　myself。　so　he　was　boss　and　whenever　it　was　a　question　whether　we　should　take　the　road　to　the　west　or　the　road　to　the　south；　it　was　synge　who　finally　decided。
synge　was　fond　of　little　children　and　animals。　i　remember　how　glad　he　was　to　stop　and　lean　on　a　wall　in　gorumna　and　watch　a　woman　in　afield　shearing　a　sheep。　it　was　an　old　sheep　and　must　have　often　been　sheared　before　by　the　same　hand；　for　the　woman　hardly　held　it；　she　just　knelt　beside　it　and　snipped　away。　i　remember　the　sheep　raised　its　lean　old　head　to　look　at　the　stranger；　and　the　woman　just　put　her　hand　on　its　cheek　and　gently　pressed　its　head　down　on　the　grass　again。
synge　was　delighted　with　the　narrow　paths　made　of　sods　of　grass　alongside　the　newly？metalled　roads；　because　he　thought　they　had　been　put　there　to　make　soft　going　for　the　bare　feet　of　little　children。　children　knew；　i　think；　that　he　wished　them　well。　in　bellmullet　on　saint　johns　eve；　when　we　stood　in　the　market　square　watching　the　fire？play；　flaming　sods　of　turf　soaked　in　paraffine；　hurled　to　the　sky　and　caught　and　skied　again；　a