著者

野尻 吉之進

出版者

帯広畜産大学

雑誌

學術研究報告

巻号頁・発行日

vol.1, no.4, pp.53-66, 1954-03-30

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This is an essay on Sherwood ANDERSON, in which I have tried to explain his art and role in Modern American Literature, by faithfully quoting passages from his works and letters. At the beginning Arthur QUINN's comment on him is cited as an illustration of the conventional view in his age, which disapproves his works by regarding his characters as monsters and admits them to have no promise for the future of American fiction. In short, QUINN concludes that ANDERSON has nothing on when the illusion is dispelled, as is the case with the king in ANDERSEN'S fable. Is ANDERSON really to fade away into thin air, like the king's illusory garments to which QUINN compares his plotless novel? To solve this problem, we must turn our attention to the struggle between the old and new which was conducted both inside and outside himself. His irresistible yearning for the old tradition of art always bumped against the new harsh environment, like an innocent child suddenly thrown into this complicated world. Nor could he shut his eyes to the influence exercised by the machine-driven industry then encroaching on the old handicraft, which, in parallel with the cultural confusion of his age, was disabling the people into mere puppets. No wonder he should have condemned the mechanical civilization as depriving people of art and humanity. The more he yearned for the simple rural life in the past, the more he came to detest the blighted life of his times. His close observation of the modern world only served to make the atmosphere of his works vague and mysterious. As his insight deepened into reality, his characters grew more and more grotesque. This only shows that he was more of an idealist than a realist, more of a poet than a philosopher, and more of an artist than a theorist. Let us call to mind that he loved his words dearly as he had pity on his characters, and the style for him was the artist himself. He only wanted to depict human beings as they were revealed through his vision, and the world he created was not a mere duplicate of this life. What QUINN called his 'monsters' and his 'idle thoughts rarely translated into life' were nothing but his truths personified and subconscious ideas touched by his probe. It is easy for us to feel, if we only want to, the nearly intangible beauty behind the grotesque, exuded from his love and sincerity pulsating below the surface. Thus the aforesaid fable may be regarded as saying "Any child who can appreciate art will be lost in wonder at the luminous gauze enveloping ANDERSON, while conventional people frown at the ugliness of his naked body". Of course there was some confusion unavoidable, when he tried to depict numerous images as they came. across his mind, and especially when he saw men and women in their mental experiences, though the confusion had something ordered, so to speak, a kind of central thought veiled in mystery. By nature 'he was one of those men in whom the force that creates life is diffused, ' and beauty for him was something to be perceived only in formless pervasion. It is natural that a series of new experiments should have led him to a plotless novel. His attempt, however, was too difficult to meet with invariable success, and moreover we must admit that he was utterly helpless in his later years. In this respect Alfred KAZIN may be justified in calling him 'a Prospero who had charmed himself into sleep and lost his wand'. But it leaves little doubt that he did have a magic wand, which helped him strike out new paths in art and inspire a new life into the naturalism at that time. It is a pity that his magic should have come to shut him in a castle with no exit, but no one today will deny his deep and far-reaching influence on Modern American Literature. With his bold, sincere, and unconventional attitude, with his works that may be immature but have their own primitive vigour and naive appeal, and in his important role as a pioneer in an unexploited sphere of literature, we may reasonably conclude that he is the very man to be called the father of Modern American fiction.