440
emotion-since according to his
nineteenth-century code of self-re–
liance he should have been more
than equal to any and all antagon–
ists. It was evident at this period
that he believed that "if only he
had been a better artist," he would
have triumphantly mastered all
difficulties; the theme, in one form
or another, was never long absent
from his talk. A psychiatrist might
have found that he died of a sense
of guilt, not a heart attack-and
because he believed he had not
been worthy of the mighty critical
standards of Sainte-Beuve and
Schumann!
It is unnecessary to point out
that if other writers were to set
themselves such standards, our
obituary pages would be full and
our best magazines empty. But of
course there is no danger of that.
Under such a perfectionist handi–
cap, disaster could only have been
ayerted by the sternest kind of re–
alignment of the man to himself
and his environment, a realign–
ment that rarely takes place, that
the Son finds almost impossible.
When under the grimmest batter–
ing he bloodily achieves it, he is
certain to be
in
primary relation
to Nature; if he is a critic, depen–
dent for stimulation upon the work
of others, he cannot do it-or, if
he does, he becomes in effect a
kind of philosopher, dealing direct–
ly with life rather than with life
through art-objects.
Exceptionally thin-skinned and
tender-minded, Paul Rosenfeld was
by no means the kind of Son to
endure such solitary arctic trials.
J'he inclination of the wishful, ar-
PARTISAN REVIEW
dent "boy in the sun" ran, on the
contrary, toward fantasies of cul–
tural brotherhOod, such as those
expressed hopefully in
Port of New
York
and certain of his early writ–
ings on American "music-longings
that he abandoned later in bitter
disillusionment when the sharpened
demands of his maturing intellect
dissatisfied him with some of his
erstwhile heroes. It was also dur–
ing this middle-aged period that
he complained repeatedly: "What
was I doing at college?" or "I don't
know the ABCs of philosophy!" or
"Would you believe it, I'm just
now learning what Plato was all
about!" (Under a mental strain
that might have led to a complete
breakdown, he had embarked
courageously upon an ambitious
study of literary forms which in–
volved a strenuous re-education in
historical thought. The once self–
indulgent impressionist, at an age
when most writers are content to
repeat themselves, was striving to
master a new and uncongenial in–
tellectual technique, to write less
rhapsodically, to correct the errors
of his youth.) His self-criticisms of
this period were directed, I believe,
not only at his training but at
his
temperament, at the very depths of
his character. They were uttered
with a despair that I did not ap–
preciate at the time, although I re–
call my horror when he said, apro–
pos of something else, but in a sim–
ilar tone, that he had stopped play–
ing the piano, which had formerly
been his indispensable companion.
In my preoccupation with my own
difficulties and in my conventional
efforts to cheer him I did not per-
