by Maria Popova
“From The Wisdom of the Heart (public library) — the same wonderful 1941 anthology of Henry Miller’s short stories, profiles, and literary essays that gave us his reflections on writing, the art of living, the future of mankind — comes a beautiful essay titled “Creative Death,” a fragment from Miller’s unfinished book on D. H. Lawrence, originally published in London’s literary journal Purpose.
Miller begins by celebrating the “livingness” that permeates Lawrence’s writing, this idea that “the sun itself will never become stale, nor the earth barren.” Like the true gift of the dog, at the heart of human life is a kind of crystalline awareness, something Jackson Pollock’s dad knew too well. Miller writes, adding to history’s famous definitions of art:
Strange as it may seem today to say, the aim of life is to live, and to live means to be aware joyously, drunkenly, serenely, divinely aware. In this state of god-like awareness one sings; in this realm the world exists as poem. No why or wherefore, no direction, no goal, no striving, no evolving. Like the enigmatic Chinaman one is rapt by the everchanging spectacle of passing phenomena. This is the sublime, the a-moral state of the artist, he who lives only in the moment, the visionary moment of utter, far-seeing lucidity. Such clear icy sanity that it seems like madness. By the force and power of the artist’s vision the static, synthetic whole which is called the world is destroyed. The artist gives back to us a vital, singing universe, alive in all is parts.
In a way the artist is always acting against the time-destiny movement. He is always a-historical. He accepts Time absolutely, as Whitman says, in the sense that any way he rolls (with tail in mouth) is direction; in the sense that any moment, every moment, may be the all; for the artist there is nothing but the present, the eternal here and now, the expanding infinite moment which is flame and song. And when he succeeds in establishing this criterion of passionate experience (which is what Lawrence meant by ‘obeying the Holy Ghost’) then, and only then, is he asserting his humanness. Then only does he live out his pattern as Man. Obedient to every urge — without distinction of morality, ethics, law, custom, etc.
Articulating a sentiment 18-year-old Sylvia Plath echoed just a few years laterand speaking to the beauty of not knowing, Miller observes:
[The artist] opens himself to all influences — everything nourishes him. Everything is gravy to him, including what he does not understand — particularly what he does notunderstand.
To be is to have mortal shape, mortal conditions, to struggle, to evolve. Paradise is, like the dream of the Buddhists, a Nirvana where the is no more personality and hence no conflict. It is the expression of a man’s wish to triumph over reality, over becoming. The artist’s dream of the impossible, the miraculous, is simply the resultant of his inability to adapt himself to reality. He creates, therefore, a reality of his own…
It is not that he is incapable of living. On the contrary, his zest for life is so powerful, so voracious that it forces him to kill himself over and over. He dies many times in order to live innumerable lives…”