122
PARTISAN REVIEW
ing erected for it. It is probably not good for the poet to become the
standard-bearer of any party, the thing gets out of control-from being
standard-bearer he becomes standard, and people wave him about wildly.
I think the results begin to show in
The First Morning,
particularly in
the number of pages given over to small versified remarks, parodies
(even one of the poet himself, which does not appear to show any
great self-knowledge) and pompously humorless jokes about poetry and
criticism-the more or less affable informalities, the inflated marginalia,
of the arbiter-elect. It is probably not good for the poet to become a
myth, any myth but his own, surely; there is the danger of becoming
at last, as Mr. Viereck in another connection points out, merely "a
Maerchen
dreamed by the deep, cool clams." Let the clams keep cool,
they're not out of this wasteland yet.
Howard Nemerov
IN THE FIRST PERSON
ARROW IN THE BLUE. By Arthur Koestl er. Macmillan . $5.00.
In his chapter on the pitfalls of autobiography, Koestler
states his belief that there are two main reasons for writing an auto–
biography: (1) the "chronicler's urge," and (2) the
"Ecce Homo
mo–
tive." In his case it is difficult to tell which was the more urgent reason;
he himself does not seem to know; and the result is that
Arrow in the
Blue,
the first installment of a work that promises to run to several
volumes, ranks neither with the best of the chronicles nor with the
best of the self-revelations. This is a pity, because Koestler is an ex–
cellent writer and rather a fascinating character. He has not carried
out the promise outlined in the following passage: "In 1937, during
the war in Spain, when I found myself in prison with the prospect of
facing a firing squad, I made a vow: if ever I got out of there alive I
would write an autobiography so frank and unsparing of myself that
it would make Rousseau's
Confessions
and the
Memoirs
of Cellini
appear as sheer cant." After that very impressive vow, what he has
produced is very disappointing.
One curious thing about this book is the lack of people in it. I
don't mean that he doesn't mention a number of people; he does; but
there is no one painted at length, so that you feel that here is someone
whom you have met and known. The nearest thing to a portrait is
his picture of his father. Also, strange to say, there is no woman in it.
Perhaps I am wrong to say "strange to say" (which I threw in simply
because of his eager interest in women), because Koestler himself con-
