The Working Novelist and Mythmaking Process - Andrew Lytle

The Working Novelist and the Mythmaking Process
Author(s): Andrew Lytle

Source: Daedalus, Vol. 88, No. 2, Myth and Mythmaking (Spring, 1959), pp. 326-338
Published by: The MIT Press on behalf of American Academy of Arts & Sciences
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The Working Novelist and the
Mythmaking Process
Andrew Lytle
When I first began thinking about the book which was to become
The Velvet Horn* I was thinking consciously: that is, rationally.
I could almost say falsely, except that the creative act uses all the
mind's faculties. I thought I wanted to do a long piece of fiction
on a society that was dead. At the time I saw the scene as the kind
of life which was the Southern version of a life that, discounting
the sectional differences, had been common everywhere east of the
Mississippi and east of the mountains. That life seemed to me to be
what was left of the older and more civilized America, which as
well retained the pattern of its European inheritance. The Civil
War had destroyed that life; but memory and habit, manners and
mores are slow to die.
As a boy I had witnessed its ghostly presence, and yet the people
which this presence inhabited were substantial enough. They were
ahve in their entire being. They seemed all the more ahve because
their culture was stricken. The last active expression of this society
seemed to fall somewhere between 1880 and 1910. Those decades
seemed the effective tiirning point of the great revolution which
was to diminish a Christian inheritance. The mechanics of the change
are obvious to all; the most effective was the automobile, since it
uprooted the family by destroying its attachment to place. In the
South, certainly, family was the one institution common to all its
parts. There was great variety to the South's homogeneity, which the
false myths about it never understood. There has been no part of
this country so afflicted with "galvanized" myths which presumed
to interpret it, but it was family as institution which best expressed
* The Velvet Horn (New York: McDowell, Obolensky Inc., 1957), is set in the
Cumberland hill country in the nineteenth century, and revolves round the
passionate-natured Cropleigh family. Besides its poetic descriptions and its
sensitivity to speech rhythms, the novel, marked for its use of symbolism, is
rich in metaphor and allusiveness.?Editor.
The Working Novelist 327
its culture. By family, I mean all the complex interrelationships of
blood and kin, the large "connections" which extended to the county
lines and by sympathy overlapped the states.
I take the automobile as the supreme agency in the destruction of
attachment to place, since the railroads did not destroy the commu
nities; they merely connected them more readily. Family and place,
as I said, go together. It was the sense of both which set the South
apart in this country, but too much was asked of the family as
institution. It should have been one among many institutional
expressions of culture; it was called upon to do more than its form
allowed. But the artist works by means of such limitations. So it
seemed to me as I began. I had no intention, no sense of dealing with
a myth which forever recurs within the human scene.
This conscious approach is merely one way in, or down. The writer
may begin with anything, a mood, a scene, an idea, a character, a
situation. Whatever sets him going generally appears suddenly in
that suspension of attention which is like the aftereffect of shock.
It is a condition of the psyche when it finds itself outside time.
This condition may be the occasion for vision or dream. In the
Middle Ages any man might know it. Dreams remain, but vision
commonly fails us today. We are helpless before the condition in
which dreams appear; but vision strikes the state of consciousness.
This stroke and that mysterious sense of being possessed largely
remain for the artist, the point being that presumably he suffers this
intrusion when he is conscious. Presumably, because the aftereffect
of shock allows for a certain awareness of what is going on around
outside, but the consciousness does not respond in action. It is
suspended before the intuitive and instinctive action taking place
within the mind. Somehow, through a fissure, the unconscious pierces
the consciousness, and from below streams the image, or whatever it
is, that sets the artist to work. The shock is a true shock. It paralyzes
the rational mind momentarily. It is mysterious. The cause, the
source, can in no way be discovered by natural or positive means.
But the experience is true, and forever denies to mere formula a
rendition of the knowledge which is experience.
The creative act is, then, both a rational and an intuitive perform
ance. What comes up from below through this fissure generally
relates to the subject, but for me at least it always seems at first to
be the essence of the subject. It can be this, but it rarely is. It must
contain the essence, however; and it is just here that the conscious use
328 Andrew Lytle
of the craft of fiction comes in. The craft is the lesser part, but
nevertheless crucial. Without its procedure of arranging, finding
relationships between structural parts, and all such matters, as well
as the tedious search for the right word or phrase, there would be
no art of language as fiction.
It is curious, but for as long as I have written, I am always sur
prised afresh, after much sorrow and trouble to get a story going,
that the idea may merely be related to, not be, the subject. Each
time I have to learn afresh that it is either a segment of a larger idea
or an idea too big for the action, as it shows itself. The resistance
to its dissolution in the action is enormous, partly because it retains
the excitement of the moment of inspiration. This inspiration is a
momentary vision of the whole. It quickly sinks into the abyss from
which it arose, leaving the idea as a kind of clue, the end of the
thread which leads into the labyrinth. No matter how firmly the
critical sense has explored the idea's limitations, the moment the
artist engages himself, he cannot but take it to mean more than it
does. An idea is so inflexible; it tends so easily toward the conceptual.
It must turn flesh before it is fiction. Fiction above all should give
the illusion of life, of men and women acting out some one of the
eternal involvements we all know, resolving, not solving. Only God
may solve. A character or a situation would be the simpler way to
begin. It would lead more directly into the conflict. It is rarely
my way.
I feel there is an advantage to beginning with an idea rather
than a situation or a mood. This advantage is suggested by its very
irrefrangibility. If the idea is universal, in action it becomes arche
typal. Therefore, to render it describes more nearly a whole action;
and the artist must not tell any story but the one story which the
people and situation demand. I would like to distinguish at this point
between an opinion about behavior and archetypal representation.
Opinion is the vulgarity of taste. It is never a true idea, because
it is either topical or partial. It distorts any action, since it is blind
to the fullest complexity of that action. No matter how disguised,
opinion always has a "message," it always wants to prove something
instead of making experience show itself. Its selection of incidents,
therefore, is often obviously arbitrary. This is the failure of the
realistic school of fiction, if school it is.
To begin by wanting to resuscitate a dead society, it seems to fol
low, involves the writer in a great risk. It gets in the way of bringing
his people ahve. For the first hundred pages or so he is in danger of
being misled by opinion. He is saved by the creative act; that is,
he is saved by his people showing life. The moment comes when
the actors in the stress of the situation will come "ahve," will make
a response that reveals them. In the hght of this response the writer
can go back and rectify, revise, remove the scaffolding. Then he is
able to examine, to criticize the impulse which set him going. He
can do this without impairing the life evoked. He can do it because
hfe is there. It is at this point that the conscious and the intuitive
practice of the craft work most easily together. The mechanics for
this is cleaning up as you go along. Ford Maddox Ford taught me
this method. Many practice it, but not all. You do the day's stint,
let it set, and next morning look at it again. Tighten it up, change
things about, and then proceed. As the action grows, each day's
work moves closely out of what has gone before. In the beginning
it is not always clear which of the threads of complication holds the
center. Cleaning up at last shows it. This is a decisive moment.
Such a process simulates natural growth most unnaturally: that is,
it has about it the mystery of all growth, and yet is artificial. The
common miracle of life is the seasonal change. It is so common, and
of necessity must be so, else we would be too aware of living in a
state of constant miracle. This would strain the amenities. So it is
in the practice of a craft. But there are moments when the craft
is overborne by the stroke of life. This is the flash of miracle. This
is the artist's reward, almost the only lasting reward, for it is an
assurance that the work is moving as it should. Perhaps it was of
this that Blake was thinking when he said the artist continues the
act of God.
How gradually does this bemusement with the strict idea lift.
I do not now remember at what stage it became clear again that
you do not write about a society living or dead. You write about
people who hve vrithin the constraint of some inherited social agree
ment. They are already involved when you take them up, for there
is no natural man. He has never anywhere been seen, certainly not
within historic time. But what is natural or common to all men has
been changed from birth by manners and mores, institutions, all the
conventions and laws of a given society. It is the restraint of decorum,
propriety, taste, the limits of estates and classes?all such which
distort, repress, guide the instincts, impulses, passions, the unruly
demands of the blood toward the multifold kinds of behavior. All
330 Andrew Lytle
forms of intercourse rely upon faith and behef. This is a platitude
of statement, but as working knowledge for the author it shows itself
with the fresh hght of truth.
And this working knowledge was already informing, changing from
a concept to the movements of life, the idea of a dead society. I was
not only rationally seeing fuller implications; that is, I was not only
seeing of what this society was composed as action, which had already
taken it out of a conceptual stage; I was comparing it to the cycles
which other societies go through. The decline of civihzations, for
example, of necessity follows the failure of behef, the cultural forces
gradually withdrawing made manifest in the hardening of traditional
laws and forms, foreshadowing rigidity: that is, death. But out of
death comes life, as appositely death is the conclusion to life. Within
the circling spiral of such change hes the behef in immortahty and
continuance. At some point it came to me that it is the archetypes
which forever recur, are immortal, timeless; it is only the shapes in
which these appear that seem to harden and die, that is, the manners
and mores that are unique to a given society; and these shapes are the
appearances of reality, the world's illusion moving within the illusion
of time. What a shock this was to my partial and emotional view of
the South!
Now the South was a mixed society, and it was a defeated society;
and the defeated are self-conscious. They hold to the traditional
ways, since these ways not only tell them what they are but tell them
with a fresh sense of themselves. Only defeat can do this. It is this
very self-consciousness which makes for the sharpened contemplation
of self. It is comparable to euphoria. The sudden iUumination made
life fuller and keener, as it made life tragic. But it stopped action.
The very heightening of self-awareness made for a sudden with
drawal of the life force. What was left of it remained in the surface
forms. The forms were shattered, but because of this force they held
their shape briefly. The shed skin for a while shines with life, but
the force of life is already on its night sea journey. I did not know
how to define this force at the time; I only felt it vaguely, as I felt the
vacuum beneath, which is the atmosphere of chaos. I was slow
to connect this basic energy with the repetitive thrust out of chaos
into the surrounding void, but I felt I knew that chaos is the under
lying condition of any artifice, whether it was the state or the family
or a work of art. Mythically, for so far only did I read the myth, it
seemed the state Adam and Eve found themselves in after Eve had
been taken from Adam's side. Their expulsion from the earthly para
dise seemed to put them into the disorder of chaos. Actually, they
were confronted by a natural order which was a multiplicity of the
conflicts of opposites. This is not chaos but life as we suffer it, and
we fall into it as the child falls into the world. Continuance depended
upon the exercise of the will and especially the crafts, not only to
survive but to try to restore, to bring together the two halves which
make a whole. Together, man and woman serve as the basic symbol
for the life drama. How old is the sentence we hear every day,
'This is my better half."
It was some years after I had been working on the as yet unnamed
The Velvet Horn that I realized I was treating an aspect of this
ancient drama. The brothers and sister, under the guidance of the
eldest, withdrew from the stresses of formal society in an effort to
return to the prenatural equihbrium of innocence and wholeness.
This is an habitual impulse, the refusal to engage in the cooperating
opposites that make life. It is also as illusory as any Golden Age,
and forbidden by divine and human law. Therefore, it is the grounds
for one of the oldest forms of search and conflict The symbol for this
is incest It need not be fact; but it is symbol, also one having a hteral
counterpart; in one instance in the story it happened as fact as welL
For many years it has seemed to me that incest was a constant
upon the Southern scene. There was plenty of circumstantial evi
dence. The boys' and girls* rooms seemed too obviously separated.
I remember in old houses the back stairs with sohd paneling to hide
ankles and lower legs as the girls came down. Call it prudery, but
what is prudery? The fear of incest, if incest it was, was perhaps not
overt, but I knew of whore houses where too many of the girls had
been ravished by fathers and brothers. Even if these were extreme
instances?I had no way to know how general they may have been
?still they were indicative. But the actual union between close kin
was not my interest. It was the incest of the spirit which seemed
my subject, a spiritual condition which inhered within the family
itself. I did not have to look very far, no farther than both sides
of my own house, to know this. It was clearest in the county family,
where the partial isolation meant an intimacy and constancy of
association in work and play which induced excessive jealousy
against intrusion from the outside. Often enough a partiality for one
child went beyond the needs of parental care, bringing about all
kinds of internal stresses within the family circle. This jealousy, this
332 Andrew Lytle
love, extended to the land and to natural objects with a possessiveness
lasting even generations. I know of a family that today will engage
in ritualized quarrels for hours on end over whether a field has been
let grow up in sprouts, while the guests sit as at a play. These are all
love quarrels, and the land is as much subject as object.
But to return: once I had got well into the first section of the
novel, I had completely forgotten that I had wanted to bring a dead
society to life. What part incest would play had, as well, moved to
the edge of my attention. I was involved in the first pressures of
making a world, peopling this world into which the young nephew,
Lucius, would be guided by his uncle. The surface action seemed to
be the initiation of the boy, culminating in his first sexual experience,
although this was by no means his only adventure. The world he
was entering, I felt, must seem out of the world, withdrawn, mysteri
ous, of a strange look to him and refreshing, since in chmbing the
Peaks of Laurel, he left behind a dry and sterile place, burning under
excessive drought. Of course he was chmbing into his entanglement
with life, which his fathers suicide would rebegin. The seeming
accidental reason for the climb was to witch a well: find water. It
bore a hteral as well as symbolical meaning.
Gradually I became aware of the need for this double usage as
far as fiction is concerned. The symbol should always have its hteral
or natural counterpart. It should never rely upon the Platonic ideal
image; this is a concept. Since fiction is an action in which nothing
must be left inert, a concept of perfection, say, cannot be known
actively. Perfection can only be sought out of imperfection, out of
the fallen state of man represented by the cooperating forces of good
and evil. The reinterpretation of myth by such people as Jung and
Zimmer has done much to make this clear, but I think it has always
been known by a certain kind of artist, if only intuitively. It was
the yeast which worked the dough. An image seemed, then, not an
imperfect reflection of perfection, but an action derived from the
shattering of a whole into parts, which in all myths of origin begins
the world drama. The end of this would be a reunion of the parts
into a whole, but a whole no longer innocent. But this reunion never
takes place in the world, else the drama would end. Here was the
clue to the end of my novel, however, although I in no way saw it.
The action had not moved sufficiently to inform me.
Anyway, the action itself must be symbolic of the archetypal
experience. This, I consider, was the most important thing The
Velvet Horn taught me. The symbol must be more than an inert
sign or emblem. Where symbols appear?and there will be one to
contain them all in their relationships?they represent the entire action
by compressing into a sharp image or succession of images the essence
of meaning. For example, in animal nature, the horn stands for both
the masculine and feminine parts of being, the two aspects of the
apposites which make a whole: the two in one contained by a single
form. Add the velvet to this and you posit the state of innocence,
that suspension before the act which continues the cycle of creation.
At a certain moment the buck, out of the mystery of instinct, rubs
the velvet off against the tree, and then he is ready for the rutting
season. The velvet grows about the feminine end of the horn, and
it bleeds as it is rubbed away. The blood is real, but the act sym
bolizes what the other end of the horn will do. In human nature the
horn's counterpart would be the hermaphrodite, Hermes and
Aphrodite contained within the one form. Their separation, Eve
taken from Adam's side, at another level continues the cycle of crea
tion. Both forms exist vrfthin the constancy of the seasonal turn of
nature. The entire range of imagery relates to these.
So used, the image as symbol becomes the clue to reading, the
means by which all the parts are related to the structure. It is not
inert but active, being both root and crown of a particular living
experience. This is technically called the controlling image; and
once discovered, it allows the reader to read, not read into a book
his own preconceptions and preoccupations. It also guides the
judgment as it analyzes the rendition. When an action eschews the
partial or topical, it is always symbolic, that is archetypal, whether
the author knows it or not. To see a fiction either as so-called realism
or symbolism is to commit the literal error, either as writing or
reading. Reahsm distorts or diminishes the full action by plotting
beforehand a beginning, middle, and end. How can this be done
without inhibiting the creative act? How can a writer know before
hand what his people will do, until he has put them into action and
so let the kind of thing they do show them for what they are; and
upon this ground proceed partly creatively and partly deliberately?
I rather imagine that when such fiction is successful, the author allows
his creative sense to abandon the rigid plotting or the parts of it
which get in the way. On the other hand you find the symbol misused
as sign. Sign as symbol will be inserted in place of the concretion,
the motion of action. It will be made to stand for the action instead
334 Andrew Lytle
of the actors in conflict showing it. To let the bare boards of the
Cross stand for the Crucifixion is one thing; the Cross as image
releasing the action of the Passion in the mind and heart is the
other, the fictive way.
The writer working out of some form of myth will accept the
supernatural as operating within nature. He does not take the world
as the end in itself. His form will be some form of myth. Myth:
symbol: archetype?the structure: the image: the conflict of the
ever recurring human experience. In the Garden of Eden section of
The Velvet Horn ("The Water Witch") there are three parts that
represent the three stages of Eden as symbol of the world drama.
Adam alone, the hermaphrodite, is the entire creature isolated within
himself, the stasis of innocence, the loss of which is the beginning of
action. When the woman is taken out of his side (symbolic: not
according to nature as we know it), the separation begins the
perpetual conflict. Incest is the symbol for this next stage. The third
is the continuing action of the drama, the effort to fuse the parts into
a wholeness which is complete knowledge. The symbol for this is
the serpent, the old intruder. But there is another symbol for whole
ness, the uroboros, the serpent eating its tail, lying about the waters
of chaos. This is one of the oldest symbols, and out of it comes the
only perfect figure, the circle. You will find it all over the world.
In our hemisphere it encircles the Mexican calendar stone. To shift
the image, Adam within his form contains the uroboros, both the
masculine and feminine parts. Once separated, the feminine in Adam
becomes Eve, the masculine the Serpent. All the goods and evils
grow out of this separation, and one of the images of it is the
caduceus, the two serpents entwining sickness and health. There
are numerous forms of the separation, the dragon fight, where destruc
tive nature takes its fhe-breathing, scaly shape without the human
creature; or the Medusa; or Moses' staff. This, I should think, is
repeated endlessly in myth.
Of course reading has helped me tremendously, but I read not as
a scholar but as an artist. The wonder of it is its accidental nature.
I did not look to books for help. I happened to be reading certain
authors at the time of writing?some even before I began, Frazer
years ago, more recently Zimmer, Jung, particularly Psychology and
Alchemy, and Neumann's Origin and History of Consciousness. This
accidental reading comes close to mystery, but anyway the first real
surge of conscious direction and awareness came out of it. The
curious part is that, as I looked back over what already had been
done, I found httle to change. The action was doing its own work.
Whether it would have continued or not I cannot say. Of course
there was rearrangement but the intrusion from the depths, where
the subject lay, had already painfully and haltingly been moving in
its own direction, its own autonomous way. The conscious help from
me was ambiguous. I thought I was helping another land of story;
then at a certain moment I took hold consciously. The invisible form
showed only streaks of substance, but I was able to feel the subject
shaping its form. And I had my controlling image well fixed in the
top part of my head: incest, the act symbolic of wholeness, not the
wholeness of innocence but the strain toward a return to this state
of being. Was not the brotherhood of man most supremely defined
by the love of brother and sister, at least in symbolic terms? If they
represented the two parts of the whole of experience, the effort to
become one again must contain every kind of love which the separa
tion had scattered throughout the world as man struggled to escape
his fallen condition. Through love and the act of will he could
escape it, but only temporarily as far as the flesh was concerned. The
irony of the central conflict lay just here. It is most surely known in
the act of love, when flesh and spirit surcharge each other, in that
brief annihilation of every separate faculty, the annihilation being
the act of fusion, the disembodiment within the body, which was the
suspension in chaos before the fall. The moment in which this could
be felt had nothing to do with time, but with its opposite, the knowing
of eternity which under-stands, that is stands under or outside time,
the brief insight into the unmoving Mover.
I now saw my two working parts of the structure: the moving
present tense which is the world's illusion, and the eternal present
tense which knows nothing of past or future but always is. We know
it best in the images of dreams. But the myth and fairy tale all
operate through and represent this sense of the eternal. Once upon a
time; Long, long ago in a far kingdom?these beginnings by their tone
and meaning speak of no time, no country. They are outside time;
they are always and forever about what is constant in human experi
ence. The seeming tone of the far past is the announcement of the
timeless held vvithin the point of a moment. To emphasize this, there
is httle or no natural landscape, no recognizable cities, in myth or
fairy tale. This is a crucial distinguishing feature between myth and
fiction which deals with myth. They have the archetypes in common,
336 Andrew Lytle
but in fiction the action must be put in a recognizable place and
society. The moment I say this, Kafka appears. Except for the in
trusion of his moral rage, he more nearly approaches the ideal form
of myth. But morahty as we know it has httle to do with myth.
As soon as I began to feel the right limits of the structure, I could
deal with its formalities. Within the various levels and distinctions
of the mind, especially where it oscillates between conscious and
unconscious, I could put the sense of eternity, the images of the
past which are not past but forever quivering with immediacy.
Opposed to this, by closing the mind and letting the action take place
as upon a stage, I could use the moving present tense, the action in
time. But this last was not to proceed in a continuous movement of
surface beginning, middle, and end. Each of the five sections was
to be nearly complete within itself, the tensions of the action evoked
by eternal knowledge acting against time's knowledge. The move
ment in time would allow the sections to be dramatically connected,
each showing a whole but differently, involving, I hoped, the fullest
possibihties of the central image: incest. Not until the end of the
book would the shock of meaning connect all the parts and the action
be complete. There would be no way to turn to the end of the book
and find out what had happened. This puts a handicap upon reading,
this juxtaposition and accumulation rather than the steady advance
of a conflict, which is the way of naturalism and the oldest form of
all, the simple art of narrative.
By now I also had a firm grasp upon the point of view, and I knew
who the protagonist was. Everybody was the hero and heroine, but
only Jack Cropleigh, the brother and uncle, could represent them,
for Jack, the spiritual hermaphrodite, contained them all in his mind.
He alone could suffer the entire myth. The point of view would
therefore be that of the Roving Narrator, where the variety of the
action might he within the levels of his consciousness as it met the
unconscious: time and eternity. Having set him apart with no life
of his own, other than his entanglement with all hfe viewed by family
and community, he was best suited to control as central intelligence,
and his office as victim-savior could bring it all to a focus by his
death. The irony I intended, or recognized when it happened, lay in
how httle his victimage could offer. He could save nobody, not even
his beloved nephew, by proxy. He could only save his nephew from
running away from life. AU he could tell him was that no matter
how far you run you are always there. As archetype of victim-savior,
Jack, Im afraid, denies the efficacy of the Mass. His death implies
that for heroes, at any rate, the sacrifice must be forever repeated,
actually as well as symbolically. This perhaps is theological heresy
but mythical truth, and certainly fictional truth. The feeling and
knowledge he suffers throughout pass progressively through the three
phases of the Garden's drama, renewing through the nephew, the
inheritor, the same perpetual cycle.
The nephew Lucius, the bastard child of incest, is in a sense then
the youthful counterpart of Jack, or if you like of all his uncles and
mother. I think this was the reason I was so long in finding the
protagonist. I had begun with Lucius so the tale opens out of his
eyes and mind. Jack takes over in the next section, and the view
remains with him throughout for the reasons given, in spite of the
fact that it roves again to Lucius and even to Pete Legrand, the old
intruder. In the roving point of view it is only necessary, I feel, for
one mind to dominate throughout the story, so that no matter where
the view shifts, it might seem to belong to one central intelhgence,
that intelligence and sensibility alone equal to the fullest knowledge.
The success of this depends upon how you write it, and especially
upon the transitions from section to section. (The roving is no good
written in chapters. ) For example, although ?ie view is with Lucius
at the beginning, Jack so fills the pages, especially toward the end, that
when he takes over in the next section the reader should feel no jar
and without question follow, as he was now entering a fuller com
plexity of the complication. If he did not feel that what had gone
before was actually in Jack's mind, he could feel that it might have
been. This was tricky, I know, but if it could be made to go
smoothly, then what follows could also seem an extension of the
central intelhgence, as every mind is equal to the total experience,
the difference being that only one can know the fullest meaning in
suffering for all. Anyway, this is how it worked out?how success
fully, it is not the author's place to say.
I can only feel that it comes off. My pace of writing is generally
very slow, with constant cleaning up and structural revisions. Too
often I will spend a day on a paragraph; a page is a good day's work.
But as I drew toward the end, the last thirty pages or so, the artifice
completely usurped my mind. It possessed me. There is no other
word for it, and I've never quite felt it before. I became merely an
instrument. I wrote three or four pages a day, scarcely changing a
word. It was as if I had divided myself into two persons, one watching
338 Andrew Lytle
and one doing. The physical presence seemed a shadow. I felt
disgust for its demands, and appetite had lost its savor. My impulse
was to remain at the typewriter and not get up until the book was
done, but this would be too long for my strength. Food and sleep
were necessary, and the tactical considerations of how much changed
from day to day. I could not bear to be touched or noticed. My
nerves had drawn into the tissue of the skin. I forced myself to eat
as in a dream. I would go to bed at seven or eight o'clock and rise
each morning earlier, until I was getting up at two. In a kind of
half-awareness I knew that I had to watch this expense of energy,
or I would give out before the end. I sensed that if I did, I would
lose it, that once this possession of me by the actors was broken, it
would never return. It was as if there were only so many words left,
and each had its place, if I could hold out to receive them. The last
day my breath was all in the front part of my mouth, and each word
had weight. Then in the final hour or so they began to fade, the
substance of meaning growing hghter. When it was all done, the
final period made a final expulsion of breath. I leaned back in the
chair. I felt that all that had gone before was right, or the illusion
of the last acts being not fiction but life would not have seized me.
This is the way it was done, to the best of my recollection. There
is such cunning in the way the creative part uses the conscious craft
that it is hard to follow the twisted windings of the journey. It
seems just that. You must act as if it is real, and yet know you are
acting; but the acting is lost in the act. How it is sustained over so
long a time, in this instance over nine years, is a mystery and a cause
for shame, as is the setting down of what seems to be the procedure.
This fresh interest in myth derives, perhaps, from a weakening of
the formal authority of the Church. Everywhere the Satanic accept
ance of matter as the only value, the only fulfillment, has been shaken.
We sense again that people cannot hve, except in some belief outside
themselves. The cycles of cultures seem to show that when behef
hardens into formalism, leaving the center dry and hollow, it is a
time, as Yeats says, of the trembling of the veil of the temple. But
before some new faith breaks through, there is a withdrawal into
the source. This I beheve to be the archetypal conflicts of myth
which precede the formalized rituals and dogmas of institutional
rehgion. This is a statement only an artist can make. And he can
make it only vaguely, as it affects his work, for the artist is a cannibal
of Gargantuan appetite who does not exclude himself, if he is lucky.

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