 |
| The Funeral of Shelley Wikimedia |
"On
Life." By Percy Bysshe Shelley. From the 1880 edition of The
Works of Percy Bysshe Shelley in Verse and Prose, edited by H. Buxton
Forman.
|
|
LIFE and the world, or whatever we call that which we are and
feel, is an astonishing thing. The mist of familiarity obscures from us the
wonder of our being. We are struck with admiration at some of its transient
modifications, but it is itself the great miracle. What are changes of
empires, the wreck of dynasties, with the opinions which supported them; what
is the birth and the extinction of religious and of political systems, to
life? What are the revolutions of the globe which we inhabit, and the
operations of the elements of which it is composed, compared with life? What is the universe of stars, and suns, of which this
inhabited earth is one, and their motions, and their destiny,
compared with life? Life, the great miracle, we admire not, because it is so
miraculous. It is well that we are thus shielded by the familiarity of
what is at once so certain and so unfathomable, from an astonishment which
would otherwise absorb and overawe the functions of that which is its object.
If any artist, I do not say had
executed, but had merely conceived in his mind the system of the sun, and the
stars, and planets, they not existing, and had painted to us in words, or
upon canvas, the spectacle now afforded by the nightly cope of heaven, and illustrated it
by the wisdom of astronomy, great would be
our admiration. Or had he imagined the scenery of this earth, the mountains,
the seas, and the rivers; the grass, and the flowers, and the variety of the forms and masses of the
leaves of the woods, and the colours which attend the setting and the rising
sun, and the hues of the atmosphere, turbid or serene, these things not before existing, truly we
should have been astonished, and it would not have been a vain boast to have
said of such a man, "Non merita nome di creatore, sennon Iddio ed il
Poeta." But now these things are looked on with little wonder, and to be conscious of them with intense delight is
esteemed to be the distinguishing mark of a refined and extraordinary person.
The multitude of men care not for them. It is thus with Life—that which
includes all.
What is life? Thoughts and feelings
arise, with or without our will, and we employ words to express them. We are
born, and our birth is unremembered, and our infancy remembered but in
fragments; we live on, and in living we lose the apprehension of life. How vain is it to think that words can
penetrate the mystery of our being! Rightly used they may make evident our
ignorance to ourselves, and this is much. For what are we? Whence do we come?
and whither do we go? Is birth the commencement, is death the conclusion of
our being? What is birth and death?
The most refined abstractions of
logic conduct to a view of life, which, though startling to the apprehension,
is, in fact, that which the habitual sense of its repeated combinations has
extinguished in us. It strips, as it were, the painted curtain from this
scene of things. I confess that I am one of those who am unable to refuse my
assent to the conclusions of those philosophers who assert that nothing
exists but as it is perceived.
It is a decision against which all
our persuasions struggle, and we must be long convicted before we can be
convinced that the solid universe of external things is "such stuff as
dreams are made of." The shocking absurdities of the popular philosophy
of mind and matter, its fatal consequences in morals, and their violent
dogmatism concerning the source of all things, had early conducted me to
materialism. This materialism is a seducing system to young and superficial
minds. It allows its disciples to talk, and dispenses them from thinking. But
I was discontented with such a view of things as it afforded; man is a being
of high aspirations, "looking both before and after," whose
"thoughts wander through eternity," disclaiming alliance with
transience and decay; incapable of imagining to himself annihilation;
existing but in the future and the past; being, not what he is, but what he
has been and shall be. Whatever may be his true and final destination, there
is a spirit within him at enmity with nothingness and dissolution. This is
the character of all life and being. Each is at once the centre and the
circumference; the point to which all things are referred, and the line in
which all things are contained. Such contemplations as these, materialism and
the popular philosophy of mind and matter alike forbid; they are only
consistent with the intellectual system.
It is absurd to enter into a long
recapitulation of arguments sufficiently familiar to those inquiring minds,
whom alone a writer on abstruse subjects can be conceived to address. Perhaps
the most clear and vigorous statement of the intellectual system is to be
found in Sir William Drummond's Academical Questions. After such an
exposition, it would be idle to translate into other words what could only
lose its energy and fitness by the change. Examined point by point, and word
by word, the most discriminating intellects have been able to discern no
train of thoughts in the process of reasoning, which does not conduct
inevitably to the conclusion which has been stated.
What follows from the admission?
It establishes no new truth, it gives us no additional insight into our
hidden nature, neither its action nor itself. Philosophy, impatient as it may
be to build, has much work yet remaining, as pioneer for the overgrowth of
ages. It makes one step towards this object; it destroys error, and the roots
of error. It leaves, what it is too often the duty of the reformer in
political and ethical questions to leave, a vacancy. It reduces the mind to
that freedom in which it would have acted, but for the misuse of words and
signs, the instruments of its own creation. By signs, I would be understood
in a wide sense, including what is properly meant by that term, and what I
peculiarly mean. In this latter sense, almost all familiar objects are signs,
standing, not for themselves, but for others, in their capacity of suggesting
one thought which shall lead to a train of thoughts. Our whole life is thus
an education of error.
Let us recollect our sensations as
children. What a distinct and intense apprehension had we of the world and of
ourselves! Many of the circumstances of social life were then important to us
which are now no longer so. But that is not the point of comparison on which
I mean to insist. We less habitually distinguished all that we saw and felt,
from ourselves. They seemed as it were to constitute one mass. There are some
persons who, in this respect, are always children. Those who are subject to
the state called reverie, feel as if their nature were dissolved into the
surrounding universe, or as if the surrounding universe were absorbed into
their being. They are conscious of no distinction. And these are states which
precede, or accompany, or follow an unusually intense and vivid apprehension
of life. As men grow up this power commonly decays, and they become
mechanical and habitual agents. Thus feelings and then reasonings are the
combined result of a multitude of entangled thoughts, and of a series of what
are called impressions, planted by reiteration.
The view of life presented by the
most refined deductions of the intellectual philosophy, is that of unity.
Nothing exists but as it is perceived. The difference is merely nominal
between those two classes of thought, which are vulgarly distinguished by the
names of ideas and of external objects. Pursuing the same thread of
reasoning, the existence of distinct individual minds, similar to that which
is employed in now questioning its own nature, is likewise found to be a
delusion. The words I, you, they, are not signs of any actual
difference subsisting between the assemblage of thoughts thus indicated, but
are merely marks employed to denote the different modifications of the one
mind.
Let it not be supposed that this
doctrine conducts to the monstrous presumption that I, the person who now
write and think, am that one mind. I am but a portion of it. The words I,
and you, and they are grammatical devices
invented simply for arrangement, and totally devoid of the intense and
exclusive sense usually attached to them. It is difficult to find terms
adequate to express so subtle a conception as that to which the Intellectual
Philosophy has conducted us. We are on that verge where words abandon us, and
what wonder if we grow dizzy to look down the dark abyss of how little we
know!
The relations of things remain
unchanged, by whatever system. By the word things is to be
understood any object of thought, that is, any thought upon which any other
thought is employed, with an apprehension of distinction. The relations of
these remain unchanged; and such is the material of our knowledge.
What is the cause of life? that
is, how was it produced, or what agencies distinct from life have acted or
act upon life? All recorded generations of mankind have wearily busied themselves in inventing
answers to this question; and the result has been,—Religion. Yet, that the
basis of all things cannot be, as the popular philosophy alleges, mind, is
sufficiently evident. Mind, as far as we have any experience of its
properties, and beyond that experience how vain is argument! cannot create,
it can only perceive. It is said also to be the cause. But cause is only a
word expressing a certain state of the human mind with regard to the manner
in which two thoughts are apprehended to be related to each other. If any one
desires to know how unsatisfactorily the popular philosophy employs itself
upon this great question, they need only impartially reflect upon the manner
in which thoughts develope themselves in their minds. It is infinitely
improbable that the cause of mind, that is, of existence, is similar to mind.
Forman's
Editorial Preface: Three fragments on Life, Death,
and Love, included by Medwin under the general title of Reflections,
appeared in The Athenæum for the 29th of September, 1832,
and subsequently in The Shelley Papers. They are all included in
larger fragments (that on Life in the following composition) in the Essays
Letters #c., 1840. In the Preface Mrs. Shelley says (page xxi) à
propos of this Fragment, "Shelley was a disciple of the Immaterial
Philosophy of Berkeley. This theory gave unity and grandeur to his ideas,
while it opened a wide field for his imagination. The creation, such as it
was perceived by his mind—a unit in immensity, was slight and narrow compared
with the interminable forms of thought that might exist beyond, to be
perceived perhaps hereafter by his own mind; or which are perceptible to
other minds that fill the universe, not of spacee in the material sense, but
of infinity in the immaterial one. Such ideas are, in some degree, developed
in his poem entitled 'Heaven:' and which makes one of the interlocuters
exclaim, 'Peace! the abyss is wreathed in scorn Of thy presumption, atom-born,' he expresses his despair of being able to conceive, far less express, all of variety, majesty, and beauty, which is veiled from our imperfect senses in the unknown realm, the mystery of which his poetic vision sought in vain to penetrate." This fragment also Mr. Rossetti assigns to the year 1815.—H.B.F.
NOTES
On Life: The portion referred to on the preceding page as having been given by begins with the beginning. While adopting Mrs. Shelley's text as obviously of higher authority than Medwin's, I do not think it safe to assume that every variation arises from the inaccuracy justly brought to his charge, and have therefore noted most of the variations on the chance of his having transcribed from a different MS. from that used by Mrs. Shelley.
or: Medwin reads and.
admiration: Medwin reads astonishment.
What is the universe...: In Medwin's version, "What is the universe of
stars and suns, and their motions, and the destiny of those that inhabit
them, compared with life?"
It is well...: [This sentence], down to object, is
omitted by Medwin.
nightly: Medwin reads sight of the for nightly.
the wisdom of: Medwin omits the wisdom of, and
reads what would have been our admiration!
variety: According to Medwin, varieties.
these things...: Medwin omits the words these things not
before existing, and goes on, "truly we should have been
wonder-struck, and should have said, what it would have been a vain boast to
have said, Truly, this creator deserves the name of a God."
and to be
conscious...: Medwin reads, "and who
views them with delight, is considered an enthusiast or an extraordinary
person."
life: Here the Reflection on Life, as given by Medwin,
ends.
wearily: So in the first edition and some others; but weariedly in
that of 1852, probably through a printer's error.
|
Percy Bysshe Shelley’s “On Life”
While reading the Huffington Post’s Book section yesterday, my attention was quickly grabbed by a piece from Carolyn Vega about Percy Bysshe Shelley’s essay (or essay fragment) “On Life.” In a seeming instance of serendipity, this essay struck me as being the perfect thing to bring together so much of what has been on my mind, and by extension, what has appeared on this blog, this last month or more.
My initial intention when I started this blog a few months back was to discuss the books that I read; not quite as proper reviews, but as a way to express my insights, thoughts, and experiences of those books. It began that way, to be sure, but quickly it got off track, and I have to admit that I’m happy it did.
This blog has become a much clearer reflection of my intellectual life; of what feeds my nearly insatiable curiosity or of what leaves me awestruck, whether through the written word, conventional or unconventional art, photography of the furthest reaches of space, or recent discoveries in the realms of science. Although the breadth of the blog has certainly grown, I think the general thread that ties it all together has become clearer. If nothing else, its become a better reflection of where my intellectual curiosity comes from, and that’s from taking, as Shelley writes, “an intense delight” in the world and universe around me.
So far, I’ve explored that “delight” through the writing of Eco, Calvino, and Borges (among others), and in the poetry of the Romantics and the Beats. I’ve sought that sense of astonishment through the lessons of scientists, in the humbling images of deep space, in whimsical photographs of the moon, and in the art of the streets. And last night, when I read this Shelley essay, I realized that he expressed that feeling that I get far better and more beautifully than I ever could. He writes,
LIFE and the world, or whatever we call that which we are and feel, is an astonishing thing. The mist of familiarity obscures from us the wonder of our being. We are struck with admiration at some of its transient modifications, but it is itself the great miracle. What are changes of empires, the wreck of dynasties, with the opinions which supported them; what is the birth and the extinction of religious and of political systems, to life? What are the revolutions of the globe which we inhabit, and the operations of the elements of which it is composed, compared with life? What is the universe of stars, and suns, of which this inhabited earth is one, and their motions, and their destiny, compared with life? Life, the great miracle, we admire not, because it is so miraculous. It is well that we are thus shielded by the familiarity of what is at once so certain and so unfathomable, from an astonishment which would otherwise absorb and overawe the functions of that which is its object.
If any artist, I do not say had executed, but had merely conceived in his mind the system of the sun, and the stars, and planets, they not existing, and had painted to us in words, or upon canvas, the spectacle now afforded by the nightly cope of heaven, and illustrated it by the wisdom of astronomy, great would be our admiration. Or had he imagined the scenery of this earth, the mountains, the seas, and the rivers; the grass, and the flowers, and the variety of the forms and masses of the leaves of the woods, and the colours which attend the setting and the rising sun, and the hues of the atmosphere, turbid or serene, these things not before existing, truly we should have been astonished, and it would not have been a vain boast to have said of such a man, “Non merita nome di creatore, sennon Iddio ed il Poeta.” But now these things are looked on with little wonder, and to be conscious of them with intense delight is esteemed to be the distinguishing mark of a refined and extraordinary person. The multitude of men care not for them. It is thus with Life—that which includes all.
And there it is in the last couple of lines. Far too many of us live our lives all too focused on our individual microcosms, so consumed with the minute to minute troubles that life invariably throws at us that we rarely look outside of ourselves, and if we do, our vision is too clouded by all of those things to allow us to really see how beautiful this world can be. Or we become cynical and jaded, or maybe simply complacent, and relegate that sense of magic and awe as belonging only to children. We look at things “with little wonder,” or as Hawking so perfectly states, we spend far too much time looking at our feet instead of at the stars. We should all be striving to be that “extraordinary person” that Shelley describes in this essay, and every time I write I am reminded of this, and hope to be reminding you, too.
Let us recollect our sensations as children. What a distinct and intense apprehension had we of the world and of ourselves!
A page from Shelley's notebook, with the start of "On Life" (1918)
Shelly continues in the essay, in his Hymn to Intellectual Beauty (which has always seemed to be a continuation of this bit of prose), and other later works, to embrace the existence of an “unseen force” or power that pervades the universe, and he links it to our sense of astonishment, and it is here where our ideas diverge, although not with hostility. Whereas I suppose that I am more grounded in a rationalist and scientific understanding of the world around me, I am not immune to the enormous power that the universe has to awe and inspire. Although Shelley rejects materialism and rationality as an obstacle to wonder, I’m convinced that knowledge, science, and a rational mind can allow us to see beauty in the world in a way that is unique. Richard Feynman, the physicist, explained it best in this anecdote about the relationship of science and beauty,
I have a friend who’s an artist and he’s sometimes taken a view which I don’t agree with very well. He’ll hold up a flower and say, “look how beautiful it is,” and I’ll agree, I think. And he says’ “you see, I, as an artist can see how beautiful this is, but you as a scientist take this all apart and it becomes a dull thing.” And I think he’s kind of nutty.
First of all, the beauty that he sees is available to other people and to me, too, I believe, although I might not be quite as refined as theoretically as he is. But I can appreciate the beauty of a flower.
At the same time, I see much more about the flower than he sees. I could imagine the cells in there, the complicated actions, which also have a beauty. I mean, it’s not just beauty at this dimension of one centimeter, there is also beauty at a smaller dimensions. The inner structure, also the processes, the fact that the colors in the flower are evolved in order to attract insects to pollinate it is interesting. It means that insects can see the color.
It adds a question – does this aesthetic sense also exist in the lower forms that… why is it aesthetic… all kinds of interesting questions which with science, knowledge, only adds to the excitement and mystery and awe of a flower. It only adds. I don’t understand how it subtracts.
The bottom line is, that no matter what road one chooses to take, be it through science, or any other way you choose to know and live in the world, let it be one that allows you to always experience the beauty and wonder of reality.
The full text of Shelley’s essay “On Life” can, and should, be accessed here.
Percy Bysshe Shelley at 200 – how the poet became famous after his death
It is 200 years since the poet Percy Bysshe Shelley drowned at sea at the age of 29. At the time, his life and works were considered scandalous, due in part to his reputation as a sexually liberated, vegetarian atheist, living in a reported ménage à trois. He did not achieve literary fame during his lifetime, but today he is one of the most celebrated British poets.
Shelley was writing during what is now called the Romantic period, which lasted from around 1780 to 1840. This was a time of innovative thinking and new ideas which took place in science, industry, the arts, and particularly in literature. Other Romantic writers include William Wordsworth, Jane Austen, Maria Edgeworth, and Shelley’s friend, Lord Byron.
Shelley’s notoriety began when he was publicly expelled from Oxford University for publishing an atheist pamphlet. Four years later, he courted scandal again, when he abandoned his pregnant wife and eloped with the 16-year-old Mary Wollstonecraft Godwin (later the famous author of Frankenstein) along with her stepsister, Claire Clairmont. His poetry reflected his personal notoriety. In particular, the poem Laon and Cythna was criticised due to its attacks on religion and descriptions of a brother-sister incestuous relationship.
Together with Mary and Claire, Shelley lived a nomadic existence, moving around the UK and across Europe, before settling in Italy. It is here that Shelley wrote some of his best-loved poems, including Adonais and began his final, unfinished poem, The Triumph of Life. It is also where Shelley died. His sailing boat, the Don Juan, sank near the Gulf of Spezia. All three passengers drowned and washed ashore days later.
Angel in death
The response to Shelley’s death was phenomenal. A leading Tory newspaper, the Courier, ran an obituary which read: “Shelley, the writer of some infidel poetry, has been drowned: now he knows whether there is a God or no.” His death became a Romantic myth that steadily grew and his poetry became increasingly popular. His wife, Mary, began this Shelleyan legacy, describing him as an “angel”, a description that endured throughout the 19th century.
By 1889, the continued fascination around Shelley’s death meant that his cremation became the subject of a painting; Louis Édouard Fournier’s The Funeral of Shelley. The painting depicts a remarkably preserved corpse on a pyre, surrounded by his friends, including Lord Byron (who in reality went swimming in the sea during his funeral) and Mary Shelley kneeling in the background (she did not attend the funeral at all).
During the Victorian period, Shelley became an inspiration to fellow literary figures, including Robert Browning, George Eliot, Edgar Allan Poe, and Alfred, Lord Tennyson. Shelley’s reputation was sanitised to such an extent that even his old college in Oxford forgave his rebellious past and installed a monument dedicated to him in 1893. Sculpted by Edward Onslow Ford, a graceful, angelic Shelley lies on a sacrificial altar, guarded by a weeping woman.
Shelley’s Romantic reputation today
Interest in Shelley waned in the early 1900s and it wasn’t until the latter half of the century that his writings became respected due to the varied and many far reaching concerns found within them. His complex and fascinating personal life has also been the subject of a number of biographies and a source of endless fascination.
Perhaps his biggest claim to fame today is his marriage to the “mother” of science fiction, Mary Shelley. It is known that Shelley assisted his wife with her Frankenstein manuscript and the two had a collaborative literary relationship. This work, alongside the recently popular The Last Man, are certainly wider read than Shelley’s poetry, which are often limited to educational settings.
In popular culture, it is mainly through Shelley’s relationship to Mary and other Romantic figures that he is remembered. The 2017 film, Mary Shelley, starred Douglas Booth as the poet. As the title suggests, Shelley’s role is depicted as secondary to that of his wife, whose life is the centre of the story. Doctor Who, the most popular science fiction show in the UK, included Percy and Mary in their 2020 episode The Haunting of Villa Diodati. Again, the focus was placed on the genesis of Frankenstein. Even the popular comedy series Drunk History’s 2016 segment on Shelley identified his relationships with his wife and friend, Lord Byron, as central to his appeal.
But the 200th anniversary of Shelley’s death is am important literary bicentennial. International events have been happening over the past year to mark key moments in his life, including #Shelley200. Exhibitions, including at Horsham Museum and the Shelley Conference in London, taking place this weekend, demonstrate the lasting appeal and ongoing interest in his works. For many, Shelley’s legacy lives on.
Ozymandias or To A Skylark are a great introduction to Shelley’s poems if you want to read his works.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
- Bloggery committed by chris tower - 2509.04 - 10:10
- Days ago: MOM = 3717 days ago & DAD = 371 days ago
- New note - On 1807.06, I ceased daily transmission of my Hey Mom feature after three years of daily conversations. I plan to continue Hey Mom posts at least twice per week but will continue to post the days since ("Days Ago") count on my blog each day. The blog entry numbering in the title has changed to reflect total Sense of Doubt posts since I began the blog on 0705.04, which include Hey Mom posts, Daily Bowie posts, and Sense of Doubt posts. Hey Mom posts will still be numbered sequentially. New Hey Mom posts will use the same format as all the other Hey Mom posts; all other posts will feature this format seen here.
No comments:
Post a Comment