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Poet Viereck Explains Hotv Wooing the Muse May /">•
Bring the Queen of Sheba to Dinner, Cause the A
Gold Fish to Stare, and Change Dogs into Lobsters
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Ife J / I T suit of clothes, or a high-
,'/./ I ball —they think of it in
iff I \ I terms of verse. If they think
I AkA I 1 I *sx. v i of love, the first thing tint
l_ ~ 1 1 C " J _ J J" - " VS » J occurs is what word can
Ft ’ • * >~s • / • rhyme to love. Their brains
y pingle.
• Now in the middle ages.
* when there were great paint
e-s and poets, they did not
DOES writing poetry cause insanity?
Does wooing the muse drive men
insane, produce hallucinations,
make Idiots of poets and produce disease?
la It the most dangerous occupation ni
the world?
George Sylvester Vlereck, that shy
young poet of whom you may possibly
have heard, says so. He declares that
writing poetry is more dangerous .han
working in a coal mine or a dynamite
factory; that it drives men to drink, to
poverty, that it destroys the moral sense,
makes snobs, idiots and megalomaniacs
of many who wield the pen; and that, as
it Induces diseases of the mind, it is
more to be feared than typhoid. ,
Os course, Mr. Vlereck ought to know
When Mr. Viereck’s Jr st book of poems,
“Nineveh,” was published several years
ago. it created a tremendous sensation,
and to this book, in Mr. Viereck's opinion,
have been due the crime waves and taxi
cab robberies that swept over New York,
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“Wrote her kitchen
recipes in sonnet
form."
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However, Mr. Viereck is never more
going to write a poem again. Here he
tells why:
The Perils of Poetry
By George Sylvester Viereck
T SHALL give up pwnj tor many rea
sons. Poetry leads to insanity, for
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* one thing;
poetry Induces
diseases, for
another. lam
certain that
the scientist is
right, who says
that most liter
ary geniuses
develop toxins
la their blood.
The writing of
poetry is un
healthy; my
health has been
better since 1
decided to give
it up. More-'"
over, it befogs
. the brain. Most
of the men
poets 1 know
are idiots —I
ain one of the
few exceptions
of my acquaint
ance who are
not.
Os course
poets are sup
posed to wor
ship beauty.
Most, as a mat
ter of fact.
Z i
“Byron had convulsion? whenever he heard
i—- Kean recite,”
of beantv i Papier mache imitation news interest and he will look blankly
but n<> ion?P' ODCe wors,ll ipped the reality. at you. The only interest of most poets
Mv is * n their own mawkish sentiments and
_>>* iivoith > , and ,he Flame" will, in their verses. Now life is the great mis-
1„„ mZl°° d ’ b ‘L. 111 ' last buok of verse tress of human beings—ar. is onlv the
saka ™,,, r ,«> WOrShlp Bean,v - Art for art’s mirror. To love the image in the miiror
Feems a Jest, literature only a is unhealthy. Few poets anew anvthing
sickly mirage of life. My temperament about life
a« ra ß O iETh .H m,C tbau apstbetie - Activity, It is horrible to think of a person who
ucn. allures me. Brooklyn Bridge can only write; does nothing but write;
seems so me a far more mar
vellous accomplishment than
the most precious of sonnets.
If I were not Viereck, I would
I gladly be Edison. I some
times suspect that I would
rather have reared the Met
ropolitan Building than writ
ten my poem ‘‘Queen Lilith.”
The spirit of America has
eaten into my heart. Wall
Street is more interesting to
me than Parnassus. The
protagonists of great indus
trial combinations impress
me more than the Knights
of King Arthur’s Table or
the vassals of Beowulf. Mor
gan himself, so I am told,
was a poet before finance en
thralled him.
If one is to continue writ
ing poetry for many years
there are quite terrible dan
gers he must guard against.
Nearly all poets, as a matter
of fact, become monomaniacs.
They get a fixed idea that
they must put everything in
t ■ rhyme; they think in
rhymes; they almost talk in
rhymes. It doesn’t matter
whether they are thinking of
the menu of a dinner, the
description of scenery, a
“De Nerval . - . always said the
the Queen of Sheba was wait
ing just around the corner
for him.”
specialize. They distributed
their interests. Some trak
up carpentering, some were
engineers, most engaged in
practical occupations; thus they kept
sane. It would be a great thing for their
sanity if poets to-day -would take up addi
tional pursuits, chemistry, engineering,
farming, the brokerage Business, clerk
ing—anything practical. Richard Le Gal
iienne recently took up farming. This
is an indication of his sanity. As a matter
of fact, I know of no man poet who is
not In most things a fool—
I can make no other excep
tion except when I see my
self in a mirror.
Besides, being solely inter
ested in themselves, in im
agining that the universe
circles about them, most
poets are absolutely illiter
ate. They are more illiterate
and ignorant than street ur
chins. Ask a poet about the
Titanic disaster, the political
situation or any event of
/ r ‘ ~
who simply draws from his brain color
less images that do not exist; who f ceds
upon himself, exaggerates his own im
portance and sees the woild only, and
talsely within himself. It is tragic.
Why, few poets read the newspapers;
they are more Ignorant of the world than
monks in secluded monasteries. Is it
any wonder they go insane? Go raving
mad?
Writing poetry Is worse thafl alcohol.
A man who gets drunk on alcohol may
get some benefit, as alcohol has a food
value. But poetry has no food value.
And the man who intoxicates himself
writing poetry all the time becomes brain
starved. I have seen the brains of poets
actually die. '
The writing of poetry unquestionably
drives many poets to drirk It
many to the gutter I hav? no dotiov the
very obsession of poetry drove Poe to
take relief in wine, that ’t drove him to
wander about, often half mad, and.caused
him to suffer incredibly It have
been a wonderful thing for ne
like Le Gallienne, taken to• * aTl “‘" g hSmR p lt
Ella Wheeler Wilcox, IntereB r te p di torills.
in ethics and sane newspaper
such work would have com
pelled him to view sane,
healthy life; to realize the re,
sponsibilities of life —first of
all to himself. Many people
tell anecdotes of his borrow
ing money and failing
to return it. That is very
pitiful, and seems in bad
taste. Poe’s worst injus
tices were to himself; he
suffered poverty conse
quently.
Verlaine was an ex
ample of a man whom
poetry drove to the gut
ter. He was so obsessed
with poetry that he be
came a tramp; he lost
all interest in his person
al appearance; his poems
are wonderful, but peo
ple who met him said
that at times it was
painful to look at him.
Certainly he was not
sane—it might have been
well had he given up
poetry for awhile.
De Maupassant who
w-rote fiction besides
poetry, becamje insane.
He thought so; intensely
tit the terrible in-
visible horror in his ‘‘Horla"
that he began to imagine the
thing existed and actually pur
sued him. 1 can well imagine
that ’if I let myself go and
continued to write, and thought
of nothing but my poetic im
ageries, that iu all reality I
should begin to develop
hallucinations that the
spirits of Lilith, Ashtoreth, Nero. Catul
lus, Tiberius, the Queen of Sheba and
Hadrian were haunting me. If I wrote
long enough about the Sphinx, and
brooded on the subject with the morbid
intentness that some poets give to their
subjects, I have no doubt that it would
become an obsession. I might develop
the hallucination that the Sphinx con
fided her secret to me.
De Maupassant told Paul Bourget that
he often saw his double. Were I to go
so far and imagine I saw my double I
fear I might then really go mad —from
jealousy!
I could name many poets who took
to drink or went insane. There -was Ger
ard de Nerval, who was first obsessed
with mysticism. He drank horribly and
when ne went, to the gardens of the
Tuileries imagined he saw the gold fish
lifting their heads from the water and
inviting him to follow them into the
fountains.
Gerand de Nerval became haunted by
the imaginary beings he created. He
always said the Queen of Sheba was wait
ing just around the corner for him. Imag
ine my condition were 1 to go so far as
to become convinced that the “beast of
the Apocalypse,” of which I’ve written,
was waiting about every corner for me!
As it is. I used to be afraid of the dark;
since 1 decided to give up poetry the
dark < no longer holds terrors for me.
My fear was unquestionably due to an
over-excited imagination.
Nerval also developed a curious mania.
He dragged a lobster about the streets
of Paris with him, and when his physi
cian. a solicitous soul, objected. Nerval
naively expressed his astonishment. He
saw no reason why any one should object
to his airing his pet —why, he said inno
cently, lobsters were more inoffensive
than dogs; they never even barked. Re
cently a young man appeared in the Wal
dorf dining room with a cat on the head
of which was a crown of brilliants. I
am sure he was a poet —no one but a poet
would do anything so extraordinary as
take an angora to the Waldorf for lunch.
Recently Richard Le Gallienne wrote
me a letter telling me of a wonderful
water bug he had caught and of which
he made a pet. His enthusiasm over
the water bug amazed me—l thought he
was joking. Other letters followed. He
wrote me about his daily observations
of the bug, how he kept It in a glass
and gave it fresh water daily. He was
becoming very fond of it, he said. Then
I learned that during this episode he was
deeply immersed in writing a poem—
fortunately the water bug died; other
wise he might have developed a fasci
nation for the beetle. He expressed heart
broken grief when it died.
Poetry has driven many men poets to
Suicide. Nerval hanged himself. I have
no intention of bringing on such a fate
myself, although I have no doubts many i
of our younger poets would rejoice at
such an act.
Chatterton killed himself. Kleist »
widely known German poet, did also
Many thought of it, even if thev dton°t
carry out their intentinn-amonr them
tne poet Cooper. Perhan<i n hem
been well if‘he had done so ft
the writing of
himself—he WP " fiaVe kllle4
He wrote wonderful nnoF 6 ” 6^ 1 paresis
so mentally unbalaiiclu b J‘ t becamß
opium. He dyed hi" I'L at h 0 took t 0
of a few poets to dav w. S ? fn ‘ 1 know
» to daj who dye their hair
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“He became very
fond of that
water bug.”
imagined he was visited by a ghost.
Poets develop all sorts of habits they
cannot control I know a poetess who
worked herself into tho habit of writing
sonnets. It became an Irresistible cus-
OJi »xy. o .
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“Dragged a lobster around instead of a dog—because a lobster
never barks.’ 1 — 1
J
a a ' ,U d ” Ot fireen - One
day Baudelaire tried to
la^l e bis
the Jf hl r faCt ’ despite
I,® sta ;pment that he
ti! ed u°F s °ftening of
the brain, leads me to
suspect that he may
have had lucid moments.
Poetry drives manv
poets to drugs. There
was de Musset, who
drugged himself with a
frightful mixture of beer
and absinthe; he then
Imagined he saw his
double and that sounds
had colors. He often
hypnotized himself with
a gilt frame—most of
the poets I know do it
simply with a mirror.
Poets often develop
the mania of persecution.
They imagine that the
critics are always un
fairly treating them. Ber
nardin de St. Pierre de
veloped this idea so
strongly that he im
agined the people in
the street, paused to
criticise him.
Other poets have had
curious aberrations.
Schiller, the German
poet, usei’ to com
pose with his feet on
ice. The odor of fer
menting apples delighted
him.
Bvron. it is said,
had convulsions when
he heard Kern re
cite. He sometimes
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“De Maupassant often saw his
double.”
tom. She was absolutely miserable it
she didn’t finish a sonnet a day. I've
known her to do kitchen recipes in son
net form. Another poet insists always
in sitting with his back to the wail and
walking close to buildings in tae streets.
Once 1 asked him why. "1 am afraid of
open spaces," he replied.
There is a youug poet iu New York
who writes beautiful poems ancui. mad
ness. He declares it the most wonderful
thing in the world. That rather indicates,
however, that he is perfectly sane
Considering the dangers' of writing
poetry, I think it sould be safer for a
person to go through typhoid than to suc
cumb to the poetic afflatus. Few poets
survive it. So, for the time being at
least, I shall write no m< e.
With even the greatest of writers,
the longer they write the more incompre
hensible they become. There is Thomas
Hardy, one of the biggest men in modern
literature. No one can understand his
last work, "The Dynasts." It is a literary
mystery. With poets, however, in the
course of years they become so mysteri
ous, so complex, that no one can under
stand their work. Why. 1 found it actu
ally necessary to write a commentary
in my last nook -’xpir.ining my poems.
After 1 write verses I often forget wnat
tney mean. I "ivst keep copious notes.
Why, if 1 kept on writing poetry until 1
was thirty a book of mine would simply
consist ot' one sonnet—the rest would be
a commentary explaining it.
Recently I wrote a poem. "Pierrot Cru
cified.” 1 forgot to make a note explaining
its meaning. Ami now, when I read it I
am mystified ' can no longer under
stand ay own poem. So this is the last
1 snail write.