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PARTISAN REVIEW
riant, tousjours beuvant d'autant
a
un chascun, tousjours se guabelant
... ), in which at the same time divine wisdom and perfect virtue are
concealed. It is as much a style of life as a literary style; it is, as in
Socrates (and in Montaigne too), the expression of the man.
As
a
level of style, this mixture was particularly suitable for Rabelais.
First, on purely practical grounds, it permitted him to touch upon
things that shocked the reactionary authorities of the time, to display
them in a twilight between jest and earnest, which, in case of neces–
sity, made it easier for him to avoid full resporuibility. Secondly, it was
thoroughly consonant with his temperament-out of which, despite
the earlier tradition, which was present in his mind, it arose as an
absolutely characteristic phenomenon. And above aU, it precisely
served his purpose, namely, a productive irony which confuses the
customary a!lpects and proportions of things, which makes the real
appear in the super-real, wisdom in folly, rebellion in a cheerful and
flavorful acceptance of life; which, through the play of possibilities,
cast a dawning light on the possibility of freedom. I consider it a mis–
take to probe Rabelais' hidden meaning-that is, the marrow of the
bone-for some definite and clearly delimited doctrine; the thing
which lies concealed in his work, yet which is conveyed in a thousand
ways, is an intellectual attitude, which he himself calls Pantagruelism;
a grasp of life which takes in the spiritual and the sensual simultane–
ously, which allows none of life's possibilities to escape. To describe it
more in detail is not a wise undertaking . . . for one would im–
mediately find oneself forced to compete with Rabelais; he himself is
constantly describing it, and he can do it better than we can. I wish
to add but one thing-namely, that the intoxication of his multi–
farious play never degenerates into formless ravings and thus into
something inimical to life; wildly as the storm sometimes rages in
his book, every line, every word, is strictly under control.
The riches of his style are not without their limits; the grotesque
framework in itself excludes deep feeling and high tragedy; and it is
not probable that he could have attained to them. Hence it might
be doubted whether he has rightfully been given a place in our study,
since what we are tracing is the combination of the commonplace with
tragic seriousness. Certainly, no one can deny him the former, since
he constantly makes it appear in the setting of his super-real world,
and, in describing it, becomes a poet. That, among many other things,
