The Literature of Ecstasy

by Albert Mordell

Nor is that great poetry or literature of ecstasy of a high order which in its mystic quality eludes all compromises with reason, and borders on absurdity or is pathological. When poetry seeks salvation in apparent madness, and attaches itself to faith in the impossible, and sees distorted visions, and creates a maniac's world of unquestionably inverted order of hell-fire and brimstone, and makes outrageous and unjust demands on human nature it is of a low order. Nor is an unwarranted asceticism in poetry calculated to raise its tone.

It is vain to enumerate the various ecstasies of a low order, that of the literature which upholds different forms of wrong, as well as that which is too much attached to the commonplace, nor is it necessary to show that that poetry is not of a high order whose author goes into ecstasies about nuances, indulges in inappropriate imagery, piles up trite ideas in flowery diction, or gives continual iteration to the least important of commonplace emotions.

What then is literature of a high order? What is this great form of art that takes us out of ourselves because it has in it so much of ourselves? What is this magical arrangement of words enshrining what ideas and emotions that gives us a zest for life, that makes us drunk with aesthetic pleasure? It includes many species, all, as Milton would say, in a "strain of a higher mood." One of its greatest manifestations is that in which the ecstasy for social justice and a high form of idealism control the poet. We become carried away with his frenzy, for it evokes the highest emotions in us; an undeviating and never swerving enthusiasm for spreading right and

happiness is an elevated form of ecstasy. The grief of the oppressed and the poor goes to our own hearts, and the calamities of the woe-begone become our own. We submerge our personality in that of the human race, and the griefs of strangers lure us to cry out for them.

But it should be remembered that literature never thus becomes a weapon for reform or a piece of didacticism or propaganda. The emotion is the thing. The practical work of relief of suffering is the function of the reformer and not the poet. It is the poet's duty only to make a certain form of ecstasy contagious. Practical results will follow as a matter of course.

And then there is the ecstasy that revolves around a profound philosophic insight, when the poet rids himself of prejudiced and barren thinking and looks at the universe with awe and goes into rhapsodies about its workings. And it takes a high order of intellect to sympathize with the literature of ecstasy of this kind, that pierces into the soul of the universe. The advanced ideas of the greatest poets are, however, often such as only a few people have intellect enough to perceive, or are such as can be grasped only when man throws aside all his prejudices. And here the great philosopher, mathematician and scientist come to the aid of the poet, who emotionalizes their greatest discoveries. For reason must go hand in hand with ecstasy.

There is the ecstasy where men are shown in the helpless grasp of great passions, and are in despair because of events beyond their control. Such passions include grief of all kinds, whether brought about by death or wrong or one's own folly. The depicting of great passion belongs to the grand order of the literature of ecstasy even when the poet makes no attempt to moralize from or sympathize with it. Crime and wickedness may

be masterfully described with no ethical intent, for we are interested in the grand spectacle of a man whom the Gods have made mad, for madness is potential in all of us.

There is the ecstasy of the lover in his rapture for his mistress, and in his transformed nature. We are moved by the delicacy of his sentiment, his chivalry, his sacrifice, we are overcome by his sorrows and his misfortunes. There is the ecstasy of the love of nature where the majesty of this universe is set out in its glory. There is the ecstasy of the lover of beauty for its own sake, and of the artist in the pursuit of his work, and of the reader and of him who listens to music, of him who sees artistic pictures. There is the ecstasy of the scientist in his pursuit of truth, and of the inventor in transforming the face of the globe.

We cry out for ecstasy; it is the substance of our lives; even though, often in our pursuit of pleasant ecstasy, we are launched into tragedy. We are hungry for a happy life of the emotions. It is this which makes lovers and friends and parents of us. It is this which makes us poets, and it is the poet in ourselves that we always hunt out.