S . 25 per copy Spring, igyo LOWRY'S R67IDINC Articles BY W. H. NEW, GEOFFREY DURRANT, DAVID BENHAM, PAUL G. TI ES S EN , PERLE EPS TEIN Letters BY MALCOLM LOWRY Review Articles and Reviews BY JULIAN SYMONS, GEORGE WOODCOCK, W. H. NEW, JOHN REID, MARGARET HOWARD BLOM, FRASER SUTHERLAND, LEN GASPARINI, A. W. PURDY, FRED COGSWELL, RONALD SUTHERLAND, H. J. ROSENGARTEN, FRANK DAVEY, V. SHARMAN, DOUGLAS BARBOUR, FRANCES FRAZER Annual Supplement CANADIAN LITERATURE CHECKLIST, 1969 A QUARTERLY OF CRITICISM AND RGVIGW THE ABSORPTION OF ECHOES ALL WRITERS are derivative; all good writers plagiarize; theft is a literary virtue. So, with minimal exaggeration, one might characterize the fundamentals of a modern critical attitude which — more than half a century after Eliot, Pound, Joyce and Proust established in practice the artistic validity of derivation — has at last replaced the romantic and pernicious fiction that complete originality was a possible or even a desirable goal. Every artist, indeed, has a new way of looking at the world, because every personality is in some de- gree unique, but the world that he as an artist will see (and in his work present) inevitably includes (even if in negative) the perceptions of all those artists who have preceded him and of whose work he may be directly or indirectly unaware. When an artist is such a voracious consumer of the work of other artists as Malcolm Lowry, whose interests spilled exuberantly from literature (considered in its widest and wildest sense) into the visual (the cinema) and the aural (jazz), and all is blended with a sharply direct response to the physical environ- ment (exemplified especially in his skill as a swimmer), then the web of in- fluences and derivations becomes as dense and complicated as it was in the case of either Joyce or — that most haunting semblable — Proust. In this issue we explore, in a series of essays by Canadian, English and Ameri- can critics, and in a pair of interesting and hitherto unpublished letters by the author, this aspect of Lowry's work. The exercise may be regarded also as a probing into the whole general question of the boundaries between the derived and the original, and the extent to which an artist's success depends on his blend- EDITORIAL ing all that he has borrowed into a work that is self-consistent and self-subsistent, that lives within its own world and its own existence. In this context it is perhaps significant that, while all the critics who write in this issue are quite evidently agreed in accepting Under the Volcano as Lowry's best work, the only one that touches on perfection, a great deal of atten- tion is in fact paid to his lesser works : to the various versions of the novella that was eventually published in a compilation of other hands as Lunar Caustic, and to that curious travel story, "Through the Panama". This, I suggest, is appro- priate, for, when we proceed from the contemplation of an artist's works as icons, standing in their ownness and completeness, to examining the sources of his creativity, it is inevitable that we should find them most clearly revealed in his imperfect and — in a writer who found finality as elusive as Lowry did — in his uncompleted works. These are the works in which, to borrow a word used by Lowry in the letter to Albert Erskine published in this issue, the echoes have not been "absorbed". For absorption surely is the key word when we consider the difference between a superbly complex and complete work like Under the Volcano, and an unresolved mass of writing like Dark as the Grave wherein my Friend is Laid. I leave it to W. H. New, in his essay "Lowry's Reading", to carry further the introduction of the various essays and the tracing of their relationships. But, before ending, I must thank Margerie Lowry for her great helpfulness in provid- ing the two letters by Malcolm Lowry which we publish, and also in giving generous permission for the use in some of the essays of quotations from his unpublished writings. G.W LOWRY'S READING An Introductory Essay W. H . New 1Ν TWO LARGE BOXES at the University of British Columbia are the remnants of Malcolm Lowry's library, a motley collection of works that ranges from Emily Brontë and Olive Schreiner to Djuna Barnes and Virginia Woolf, from the Kenyon, Partisan, and Sewanee Reviews to A Pocketful of Canada, from Latin Prose Composition to the Metropolitan Opera Guide, and from Elizabethan plays to Kafka and Keats. Little escaped his attention, in other words, and even such a partial list as this one indicates his eclectic and energetic insatiability for books. That he was also an inveterate film-goer and jazz en- thusiast, and that he absorbed and remembered everything he experienced, makes any effort to separate out the individual influences on his work an invidious one; rather like chasing a rabbit through Ali Baba's caves, the activity seems in- commensurate with its surroundings. But on frequent occasions an appreciation of the scope of his references or the source of a single allusion will take us closer to Lowry's tone and method. Richard Hauer Costa, for example, writing in the University of Toronto Quarterly in 1967, points out that "unacknowledged literary kinship" between Under the Volcano, Aiken's Blue Voyage, and Joyce's Ulysses: the central use of the quest theme, the burgeoning sense of remorse, the "impatience" of the author with usual narrative methods, and so on. The Consul's "garden scene" in Chapter Five thus becomes an analogue to Joyce's Nighttown episode, and Lowry's dislocation of time, his recognition of what Costa elsewhere calls the "weight of the past", relates to Joyce's and Proust's. Such parallels have their value. It is by comparison that we learn our way into a new novel, and only after this process has taken place that we come to understand the individuality (if it exists) of the novel's own world. LO W R Y S READING Lowry acknowledges the comparative approach when in 1951 he finds in the work of Hermann Hesse the closest spirit to his own. And Clifford Leech uses comparison as a technical method in Imagined Worlds (1968) when, to investi- gate the "free manipulation of event" that characterizes the structure of Con- rad's Nostromo, he brings in an analysis of Under the Volcano to illuminate his discussion. In both books the simultaneity of present and past, achieved by allow- ing an equivocal double viewpoint of character and narrator, affects our under- standing of the situations and the ideas. As Leech puts it: "to have lived and to be the subject of anguish in recollection is in some sense to be living still." This has one meaning with reference to the Consul and Lamelle, another with refer- ence to Lowry. On a still larger scale the statement could apply as one of the aims of criticism, or one of the accomplishments of art — to recreate the moment (of anguish, terror, hope, or whatever) that the author wished to convey, or to continue to engender that experience as the moment (and so the reader) alters; but these are aspects of the same problem of freedom and fate, essentially meta- physical in nature, which all of Lowry's work continually explores. Lowry envisioned the universe as a series of Chinese boxes, with man in one of them, controlling some and controlled by others. The scheme is not quite so simple, of course, for the boxes (both external and internal) can be "factual" in any number of epistemological systems. And the whole prospect is further complicated by matters of fate and free will. Man can either control the worlds inside his mind or himself be governed, be in harmony with the sensory worlds outside him or be terrified and dislocated — and about such abstract possibilities as Destiny and Judgment (however tangible their effects in his life) he can only suppose. The scene in "Through the Panama", where Wilderness (aboard a ship in the Canal Zone) has relinquished control to the Captain, the Canal operator, and the Canal Zone Authority, is apropos. The overt image of multiple contain- ment is obvious; embodied in it is a metaphor about the sensibility of an artist — not only to the materials that can be rendered into art but also to his own en- gagement with the task. The artist, that is, pursues control over a body of knowl- edge until it catches him and takes him over. Such knowledge is the "strange comfort" that the profession provides — whether it be the S.S. Diderot's captain's extra ability and hence extra grounds for fear in the face of a strong storm, or Keats' medical knowledge disabusing his mind of any hope of recovery from his tuberculosis, or Sigbjorn Wilderness-cum-Malcolm Lowry's absorption in the present-ness of the past. The past cannot be escaped nor its reality (as preserved in memory, or in Wilderness's notebook, or in Lowry's novel) denied. Herein LOWRY S READING lies the thematic basis for both Hear Us Lord and Dark as the Grave, and a further indication of the author's structural method. In Lowry's letters we find other ramifications of this question of control. In 1951 he acknowledges Jung's concept of "man in search of a soul" as important to his work; in 1950 and again in 1953 Pirandello's Six Characters in Search of an Author suggests a "not dissimilar theme", which he relates to Existentialism and to Ortega's philosophy of history.