Logan Pearsall SmithCríticas

Includes a letter from the author to Dobell

Odd snippets of almost dreamlike oddness: musings and thought-experiments.

Son of two American Gurneyite ministers (one disgraced) moves to Europe, learns lapidary writing

[From A Writer’s Notebook, Doubleday & Company, 1949, “1941”, p. 341:]

I have been reading Santayana again. It is a very pleasant exercise, but after you have finished a chapter and stop to ask yourself whether you are the better or the wiser for having read it you hardly know what to answer. He is commonly praised for his fine phrases, but a phrase is fine when it elucidates a meaning; his too often obscure it. He has great gifts, gifts of imagery, of metaphor, of apt simile and of brilliant illustration; but I do not know that philosophy needs the decoration of a luxuriance so lush. It distracts the reader’s attention from the argument and he may well be left with an uneasy feeling that if that were more cogent it would have been stated in a manner less elaborate.

I think Santayana has acquired his reputation in America owing to the pathetically diffident persuasion of Americans that what is foreign must have a value greater than what is native. So they will offer you with pride French Camembert regardless of the fact that their own home-made product is just as good, and generally much better, than the imported. To my mind Santayana is a man who took the wrong turning. With his irony, his sharp tongue, common-sense and worldly wisdom, his sensitive understanding, I have a notion that he could have written semi-philosophical romances after the manner of Anatole France which it would have been an enduring delight to read. He had a wider culture than the Frenchman, a wit as keen, a less circumscribed horizon and an intelligence of a more delicate calibre. It was a loss to American literature when Santayana decided to become a philosopher rather than a novelist. As it is he is most profitably read in the little essays which Pearsall Smith extracted from his works.

Interesting old article about various word controversies. Only recommended for English majors and voracious readers. Introduces some great archaic words, such as meed and pelf.

The second volume of Smith's musings is even better than the first. Notable for his flights of fancy that often fall with a thud when he contemplates his own reflection. There's much here to like.

Delightful excursion into the mostly brief reflections of the American-born Oxford-educated author as he carefully observes those around him and his inner feelings. There are a few brilliant parts, a few melancholy ones, and some longer sections that tell charming stories.

"If your mind needs phosphorus, try "Trivia," by Logan Pearsall Smith."

A charmingly unaffected and diverting set of reminiscences, with personal recollections of Walt Whitman, William James, and Benjamin Jowett. Logan Pearsall Smith wrote the first drafts of chapters in the 1920s while on a private Mediterranean cruise with Edith Wharton, then worked them up into a volume in the 1930s, while in his early seventies. The book is entertaining and hard to put down.

More of those "drowsy tinklings."
From the forward to the book by G. Vidal:
Presciently, Logan feared the insect world; and its possible analogy to ours. "I hate . . . their cold intelligence; their stereotyped, unremitting industry repels me." Long before the DNA-code was discovered, Logan feared a predetermined universe where "we are forced like the insects and can't help it, to undergo all the metamorphoses preordained for our species." But this laconic master is making me garrulous. Read him; and hear the chimes at midnight. Listen.

I have, and I will continue to do so.

NA