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Tuesday, March 1, 2022

The Radical Aesthete: Oscar Wilde's The Soul of Man Under Socialism

 

     Though only ten years have passed, some will recall already with nostalgia the iconic poster for Occupy Wall Street depicting a poised dancer, a leg raised in an arabesque atop Arturo Di Modica’s charging bull in bronze representing the fierce voracity of the capitalist class. [1]  The charm of the image arose from its play with structural oppositions: female/male, beauty/power, aesthetic/mercenary, in form sinuous/blocky, in attitude poised and elegant/aggressive and angry.  Such a dramatic contrast between art and money finds acceptance both among philistines to whom only wealth-seeking is a worthy activity and intellectuals and artists uninterested, even scornful, of economic activity.  For the former the arts at best are an optional taste and for the latter business could occupy only mediocre minds.  Friction between these attitudes periodically emerges, for instance, in the twentieth-century tensions between the Surrealists and the Communists in Europe or the Yippies and, say, Progressive Labor activists in the U. S.  

     One could scarcely imagine a more passionate advocate for the aesthetic than Oscar Wilde.  His flaunted hedonism and transgressive wit as well as his own class background and his place in society might suggest that he would be likely to be a defender of aristocratic privilege, but Wilde manages to turn this expectation, like so many others, on its head.  His “The Soul of Man Under Socialism” [2] succeeds as a novel and effective polemic for economic revolution without abandoning the characteristic epigrams and ironies familiar from his plays.  Moreover, he was able to construct a coherent argument for socialism while maintaining his provocative aestheticism. [3]  In a quite Wildean inversion, in his most important points he is on the mark when out of his field in politics, while his notions about art which he had made central to his value system, are neither reliable nor consistent.  

    He makes the essential point with appropriate broadness.  As capitalism is the source of poverty and other social ills, it must be overturned to make a real change. Wilde aims to “reconstruct society on such a basis that poverty will be impossible.” The first principle of the new society must be socialized ownership of the means of production.  “Socialism, Communism, or whatever one chooses to call it, by converting private property into public wealth, and substituting co-operation for competition, will restore society to its proper condition of a thoroughly healthy organism, and insure the material well-being of each member of the community.”  This alone is crucial; all else may be settled by democratic means. 

     His motive is to beautify his country, but this requires an alteration in the economic system.  The state of the urban slums in Wilde’s time was horrific.  Reader of not only Marx but also Dickens and Mrs. Gaskell will know the desperate straits in which many ordinary people found themselves.  Even for those with employment, workers are “compelled to do the work of beasts of burden, to do work that is quite uncongenial to them, and to which they are forced by the peremptory, unreasonable, degrading Tyranny of want.”  The result of these savage conditions is a poverty-stricken class possessing “no grace of manner, or charm of speech, or civilisation, or culture, or refinement in pleasures, or joy of life.”  One can not avoid seeing such wretches, “tramping about the streets in a state of disgusting misery, or whining to their neighbours for alms, or crowding round the doors of loathsome shelters to try and secure a hunch of bread and a night’s unclean lodging.”  To him it is nearly incredible that “a man whose life is marred and made hideous by such laws can possibly acquiesce in their continuance.”  If they do, it is surely because “misery and poverty are so absolutely degrading, and exercise such a paralysing effect over the nature of men, that no class is ever really conscious of its own suffering.”

     The affluent, on the other hand, due to their leisure, are “the real men, the men who have realised themselves, and in whom all Humanity gains a partial realisation.”  Yet at the same time, the system is profoundly unsatisfying even to the ruling class.  “The possession of private property is very often extremely demoralizing.”  Among its deleterious effects is to make the rich man tiresome.  “Property not merely has duties, but has so many duties that its possession to any large extent is a bore.”  For Wilde’s posing persona, nothing could be worse.  Yet, like most of the essay, it is not in the end a joke, for who could really be interested in enriching the boss, or in the financial concerns of another at all?  Display of wealth or designs on wealth are virtually always in poor taste.   Apart from requiring the exploitation of others the pursuit of money is ultimately disappointing even when successful, as it is based on a fundamental error.  “It has made gain not growth its aim.  So that man thought that the important thing was to have, and did not know that the important thing is to be.”

    Though quite willing to sound like a genteel snob, Wilde’s motive is in fact that of all reformers whether they consider themselves aesthetes or not, a distaste for the sheer ugliness of capitalism which is, after all, centered in a repellant selfishness.  Yet at the same time he realizes that the game is in earnest and recognizes that such progress as the end of feudalism has come only through armed struggle, going so far as to say in his consistently aesthetic rhetoric, that “The very violence of a revolution may make the public grand and splendid for a moment.”  All force is not equivalent: “To the thinker, the most tragic fact in the whole of the French Revolution is not that Marie Antoinette was killed for being a queen, but that the starved peasant of the Vendée voluntarily went out to die for the hideous cause of feudalism.”  Apart from the suggestion that revolution is likely to arrive only through armed struggle (in contrast the programmatically gradualist Fabians [4]), though, Wilde says nothing about how the change in economic system is to arrive.   

     He quite properly attacks even the most well-meaning charity for prolonging rather than ending the system that produced the suffering the philanthropist seeks to ameliorate.  To him such efforts are “ridiculously inadequate” if not “impertinent.”  Reformers who call for anything less than social ownership of the means of production are displaying self-righteous vanity.  “It is immoral to use private property in order to alleviate the horrible evils that result from the institution of private property.”  In the ringing tones of the soapbox, Wilde asks, “Why should they be grateful for the crumbs that fall from the rich man’s table?  They should be seated at the board, and are beginning to know it.”  For Wilde what is ugly is therefore “immoral” and the Victorian slums offered plenty of nastiness, both aesthetic and ethical.

     If Wilde’s militance is explicit, so is his libertarianism.  He states categorically that “No Authoritarian Socialism will do.”  He adds “Authority and compulsion are out of the question.  All association must be quite voluntary.  It is only in voluntary associations that man is fine.”  (The reader notices the similarity of the use here of “fine,” with the earlier cited “grand and splendid.”)  Any authoritarian system would result, he says, in “Industrial Tyranny” as oppressive as that of the robber barons.  The twenty-first century readers may consider Wilde’s warnings well-considered, having witnessed Leninist “democratic centralism,” Stalinist and Maoist cults of personality, and even more extreme “ultra-left” manifestations such as the Khmer Rouge or the Sendero Luminoso. 

     He aligned himself with Kropotkin’s anarchism, calling the Russian "a man with a soul of that beautiful white Christ which seems coming out of Russia.” [5]  The keynote of the essay, the identification of individualism with socialism, while yielding insight with its provocative novelty generates weaknesses as well.  Some might worry that there is a contradiction in his definition: “The State is to be a voluntary association that will organise labour.”  This goal, so casually tossed off, ignores the tension (at best) between centralized planning and personal liberty.  Yet the reader does not notice in Wilde’s succeeding phrases, so balanced as to seem inevitable.  “The State is to make what is useful.  The individual is to make what is beautiful.”

     In general Wilde is little concerned with either the mechanisms that might bring a socialist revolution or the governing principles he would find ideal thereafter.  Much of his dreamier utopian rhetoric arises from his newfound anarchist loyalties.  It is all very well to say “Nothing should be able to rob a man at all” or “all authority is quite degrading,” but such absoluteness is elusive in practice.  It may be that best government for artists is none at all when it comes to encouragement of propaganda and discouragement of criticism, but many might find it a different matter if the issue were regulation of copyright and even outright social support of the arts as for other industries.  Wilde is surely willfully ignoring his own knowledge of human nature when he declares with confidence, “When each member of the community has sufficient for his wants, and is not interfered with by his neighbour, it will not be an object of any interest to him to interfere with anyone else.”  Perhaps having recently read Engels on The Origin of the Family, Private Property, and the State, he tells us that “in communistic tribes jealousy is entirely unknown.”  Not just jealousy, it seems, will die out under socialism, but with it all forms of authority and of punishment.  As a part of ending coercion, “marriage in its present form must disappear” when women cease to be a commodity. 

     Wilde sounds something like an anarcho-syndicalist; he would have been sympathetic to the program of the I.W.W. which likewise envisioned a sort of voluntary organization of labor.  Considering the sensational success of his lecture to the miners in Leadville, Colorado [5], he might in fact have found a comrade in Big Bill Haywood.  Wilde’s program, however, unlike the Wobblies’, can only be workable with the assumption that unpleasant tasks can be all but eliminated by automation, a circumstance that would certainly be liberating were it possible.   Wilde claims that all “pleasureless activities” are “mentally and morally injurious to man.”  “Man,” he argues, “is made for something better than disturbing dirt.  All work of that kind should be done by a machine.” 

     Wilde maintains that the condition of the workers in the industrial age is paradoxically even worse than in times of less technology.   “As soon as man had invented a machine to do his work he began to starve.”  The root of the problem is capitalism.  “The one man secures the produce of the machine and keeps it, and has five hundred times as much as he should have, and probably, which is of much more importance, a great deal more than he really wants.”  This analysis is quite accurate; the flaw is in the expectation that automation can render labor entirely optional and allow every individual to do as he or she pleases. 

     Fanciful as it sounds, this presumption is not peculiar to Wilde.    William Morris’s News from Nowhere, which had appeared the year before Wilde’s essay, likewise envisioned an end to marriage, schools, and coercion.  He, too, thought the magic of technology could undo the condemnation to labor laid upon Adam in the third book of Genesis, and his imagined future, as beautiful as Wilde’s, exhibits a similar dubious optimism. 

     While it may be true that modern people in developed countries spend more hours in work than hunter-gatherers, these utopian hopes are not wholly unfounded.  The mere fact that at the time of the Revolution over 90% of Americans were farmers whereas today the figure is only 1.3% indicates that our basic needs are today being met by the labor of a very few.  In the present inefficient system, another 12% are industrial workers.  Many of the rest are producing nothing but rather simply manipulating symbols on computer screens. 

     Prominent economists during the twentieth century shared portions of this happy vision of the of work’s coming obsolescence.  John Maynard Keynes in the ‘thirties predicted a fifteen-hour work week [6] and in the ‘fifties John Kenneth Galbraith said that automation was likely to “eliminate toil as a required economic institution.” [7]  During the ‘sixties, no shortage of prophets proclaimed the end of work, and, in more recent years, concepts such as the guaranteed annual income suggest that it is no longer necessary for everyone to have a job at all. [8]  Still, even a sympathetic reader must be troubled by Wilde’s easy progress from acknowledging that “civilisation requires slaves” to the prediction, vague and grand, that “there will be great storages of force for every city, and for every house if required, and this force man will convert into heat, light, or motion, according to his needs.”   

     If Wilde may be faulted for a failure to explain either how socialism might come to Britain or how production would then be organized, he must as well be credited with the novel insight fundamental to his essay: that socialism offers freedom and individualism in contrast to the slavish conformity required by capitalism.  Though Wilde will at times toss off whimsical throw-away paradoxes that bear little scrutiny, the equation of socialism and individualism is at once the most striking witty inversion of the essay and the heart of Wilde’s argument, the notion on which the practical value of Wilde’s ideas must stand or fall.

     This theme, announced with a bang in the first sentence which labels “living for others” as “sordid,” is repeated throughout.  “Socialism itself will be of value simply because it will lead to Individualism.”  Under capitalism the individual has “absolutely of no importance.”  The promise offered by change is as clear as the current defect: “With the abolition of private property, then, we shall have true, beautiful, healthy Individualism.”  “Individualism, then, is what through Socialism we are to attain to.”  This individualism will have nothing in common with exploitation; rather, it seems to Wilde to be altogether benevolent, allowing one to “freely develop what is wonderful, and fascinating, and delightful in him,” and thus to experience the true pleasure and joy of living.”

     Wilde’s paean to evolutionary individualism, though using the new and “scientific” language of evolution, in fact betrays his enthusiasm more than it provides evidence. 

“It is to be noted also that Individualism does not come to man with any sickly cant about duty, which merely means doing what other people want because they want it; or any hideous cant about self-sacrifice, which is merely a survival of savage mutilation.  In fact, it does not come to man with any claims upon him at all.  It comes naturally and inevitably out of man.  It is the point to which all development tends.  It is the differentiation to which all organisms grow.  It is the perfection that is inherent in every mode of life, and towards which every mode of life quickens.  And so Individualism exercises no compulsion over man.  On the contrary, it says to man that he should suffer no compulsion to be exercised over him.  It does not try to force people to be good.  It knows that people are good when they are let alone.  Man will develop Individualism out of himself.  Man is now so developing Individualism.  To ask whether Individualism is practical is like asking whether Evolution is practical.  Evolution is the law of life, and there is no evolution except towards Individualism.  Where this tendency is not expressed, it is a case of artificially-arrested growth, or of disease, or of death.”

     Wilde’s strongest confirmation of this marvelous individualism is to cite artists as individualists who “have been able to realise their personality more or less completely.”  Absurdly claiming that “not one of these men ever did a single day’s work for hire,” he imagines that freedom from wage slavery will similarly illuminate the life of everyman, unleashing “the great actual Individualism latent and potential in mankind generally.”  The process is self-enforcing, since becoming oneself will also give a person pleasure.   “It is through joy that the Individualism of the future will develop itself.”  This will entail as well a flowering of loving actions since “when man has realised Individualism, he will also realise sympathy and exercise it freely and spontaneously.” 

     The reader may relish the wit of formulations like those in this passage.

 

A man is called affected, nowadays, if he dresses as he likes to dress.  But in doing that he is acting in a perfectly natural manner.  Affectation, in such matters, consists in dressing according to the views of one’s neighbour, whose views, as they are the views of the majority, will probably be extremely stupid. 

 

Wilde claims that under this new order everyone will realize the greatest and most natural potential possible.  Consumerism will come to an end since “Nobody will waste his life in accumulating things, and the symbols for things.  One will live.  To live is the rarest thing in the world.”  One can hardly avoid concurring with Wilde’s regret “that society should be constructed on such a basis that man has been forced into a groove in which he cannot freely develop what is wonderful, and fascinating and delightful in him. —in which, in fact, he misses”

     Wilde’s concluding line hints in a way at his willful impracticality.  “The new Individualism is the new Hellenism.”  He may have in mind such lines as these from the well-known speech of Pericles during the Peloponnesian War.

The freedom which we enjoy in our government extends also to our ordinary life. There, far from exercising a jealous surveillance over each other, we do not feel called upon to be angry with our neighbour for doing what he likes, or even to indulge in those injurious looks which cannot fail to be offensive, although they inflict no positive penalty. [9]

     Wilde is well aware that he is propounding unlikely claims.  To his sensibility that fact simply provides evidence of his imagination.  Utopianism, far from useless fantasy, is the motive for every step forward.  “A map of the world that does not include Utopia is not worth even glancing at, for it leaves out the one country at which Humanity is always landing.  And when Humanity lands there, it looks out, and, seeing a better country, sets sail.  Progress is the realisation of Utopias.”

     A further defect of Wilde’s essay deforms its structure without affecting his central points.  Much of the latter half of “The Soul of Man Under Socialism” is devoted to a lengthy and polemical treatment of art with little relevance the socioeconomic topic under discussion.  In addition Wilde’s primary contention here, which he goes out of his way to demonstrate, is simply wrong.  Wilde characterizes art as the idiosyncratic product of a wholly individual vision, “the unique result of a unique temperament.  Its beauty comes from the fact that the author is what he is.  It has nothing to do with the fact that other people want what they want.”  Wilde is quite emphatic on this point: “if he does not do it solely for his own pleasure, he is not an artist at all.” [10]  In his view readers and viewers must become more like writers and painters.  They need only be receptive.  “Now Art should never try to be popular.  The public should try to make itself artistic.”  To him popular taste is regularly lack of taste.

     His assumptions ignore the fact that art always confirms as well as criticizes presuppositions; it abides by some conventions while twisting or ignoring others.  All art is at once derivative and innovative, just as every verbal expression is based on what the speaker has heard before while not exactly reproducing the earlier utterance, even if the words are unchanged.  Yet works and genres of art vary tremendously in their place on the continuum that stretches from predictability to novelty.  Oral literature and folk materials in earlier times and works produced as commodities for a mass audience will tend toward the familiar side of the spectrum, while works of “high art,” produced for a sophisticated elite, are more likely to be transgressive in both form and content.  Wilde ignores the very real function of art to confirm and reinforce social norms, insisting that every individual vision is inherently beautiful and worthy and novel as well.  He goes further yet, finding the artist’s individualism a summum bonum, and yet condemning as “egotism” any criticism from a member of the public with little regard for the individuality of the consumer of art.  By insisting on making novelty and self-expression the criteria for excellence, he ignores the value of a good deal of human artworks and a portion of the rest.

     He is motivated in part by the appealingly decadent reputation of art for art’s sake, but also by his counter-culture instincts.  He liked to épater la bourgeoisie when that very idea was more or less fresh [11] and gamely tossed back the suggestions that some works (such as his own) were “immoral,” “morbid,” and “unhealthy.”  The essay was published five days after he was imprisoned.  Wilde’s “Sonnet to Liberty” notes that the “roar” of the masses, even their “reigns of Terror” and “great Anarchies” “mirror my wildest passions like the sea.”  For Wilde there can be little doubt that the personal was indeed unavoidably political.

     The contribution of Wilde’s essay is twofold: by a sort of rhetorical jiu-jitsu he reverses the widespread misconception that collectivism restricts freedom and he ties the pursuit of socialism which some may question to the pursuit of pleasure from which dissent is less likely.  And he is quite right.  The effete writer agrees with the Marx of the Economic and Philosophic Manuscripts of 1844 that socialism offers liberation not only from want but from alienation as well.  If liberty means anything, it requires an end to exploitation.  One cannot be happy while another is constantly picking his pocket.  Even if labor fell short of being the fulfilling joy that Wilde thinks possible, it would at least no longer be wage slavery. 

     The essay has lasting value for both philosophy and politics as well as for literature.  The fact that it is most wise when speaking of politics and most mistaken when treating art is a contradiction Wilde himself might have relished.  “The Soul of Man Under Socialism” sketches out how art and the individual could be the ally of ethics and the masses.  In the ‘sixties I liked to say that I was not agitating for the benefit of Blacks or the poor, but for my own.  I like to imagine Wilde, in all his lace and velvet, demonstrating for Black Lives Matter.  He surely would have found our recent president unspeakably vulgar.  His élan is enough to excuse his rosy hopes.  If some epigrams fall with a bit of a thud, others generate new knowledge.  Here, in particular, Wilde’s clear-sighted recognition that social ownership if the means of production is a precondition for individual liberty emerges from his inversions of his readers’ expectations.

     Wilde is an entertainer.  His writing is animated with charm and wit, ornamented with figures of speech, and gilded by a gleaming utopianism.  Let there be many socialisms, and among them the great-hearted self-interest advocated by Wilde. 

 

1.  Further tropes include a number of satiric variations of the original Adbusters image: one replaced the poster’s advice “bring tents” with “bring deodorant,” while others substituted different figures for the dancer: Bernie Sanders, an executive with an attaché case.  The trope that attracted the most attention was Kristen Visbal’s 2017 Fearless Girl bronze facing the bull, which, though it had been produced as part of an advertising campaign for an investment management firm, was considered feminist and progressive by many.

2.  The essay was published first in the Fortnightly Review for February of 1891 as “The Soul of Man Under Socialism.”  When it was issued as a book in 1895 the title was simply The Soul of Man, but the longer version has been preferred in most reprintings since.

3.  Aesthetic and political concerns were combined by other Victorians.  Among the first to come to mind are John Ruskin and Bernard Shaw.  Perhaps apart from Wilde the best example is William Morris.

4.  Wilde wrote this piece shortly after hearing Shaw lecture.  Shaw reportedly reacted, commenting “it was very witty and entertaining, but had nothing whatever to do with socialism.”

5.  In De profundis.  Kropotkin expressed in return a sympathetic interest in Wilde’s work. 

6.  Leadville was a boom town at the time, full of bars, brothels, and firearms.  Wilde provides an entertaining account in Impressions of America which includes the supposed barroom sign “Please do not shoot the pianist.  He is doing his best.”  As a gag about America, this line had already been circulating in Britain at least since 1879, first described as posted by a church organist in Arkansas, but then relocated west to California but still in a church in another English paper, and in 1882 in the Washington Post it is placed in a Leadville church.  Wilde simply adaptedz the proven joke to his uses. 

7.  Keynes, ”Economic Possibilities for our Grandchildren” (1930) and Galbraith, The Affluent Society (1958).

8.  Among many more recent works exploring the idea are Jeremy Rifkin’s The End of Work: The Decline of the Global Labor Force and the Dawn of the Post-Market Era (1995) and Inventing the Future: Postcapitalism and a World Without Work (2015) by Nick Srnicek and Alex Williams.

9.  This is Richard Crawley’s translation.

10.  The passage is really quite harsh.  “They are continually asking Art to be popular, to please their want of taste, to flatter their absurd vanity, to tell them what they have been told before, to show them what they ought to be tired of seeing, to amuse them when they feel heavy after eating too much, and to distract their thoughts when they are wearied of their own stupidity.”

11.  The phrase has been used by a number of authors including Dumas père (in Le père la ruine).  The earliest usage seems to be in Alexandre Privat d'Anglemont’ Paris Anecdote (1855), p. 85.  In 1854 the phrase “il faut épater le public" appeared in Aristippe Felix Bernier de Maligny’s Nouveau Manuel Théatral: Théorique et Pratique.

Smokestack Lightning

 

     Texts of the songs discussed, including a transcription of Howlin’ Wolf’s recording that represents the non-word sounds in his performance, are appended. 

     

 

     Apart from the striking repeated title image Howlin’ Wolf’s “Smokestack Lightning” [1], consists largely a of collage of blues formulae mixed with more significant and effective inarticulate moans and cries.  The song, with its elemental emotional appeal, made number eleven on the R & B charts and has since been covered by countless bands, including significantly the Yardbirds who brought Wolf’s lyrics a huge white audience.

     Musically the performance could hardly be more focused with its driving relentless vamp on a single chord.  The song contains some of the most familiar language in blues literature; set phrases of complaint that define the genre.

 

 

Why don't ya hear me cryin'?

 

Whoa oh, tell me, baby

What's the, matter with you

 

Where did ya, stay last night?

 

Whoa-oh, fare ya well

Never see, a you no more

 

Whoa-oh, who been here baby since,

I-I been gone

 

     This web of lament is then intensified by the non-linguistic utterances so prominent in Wolf’s oeuvre, indeed the basis for his name.  Here the singer bursts beyond the capacity of words, as in scatting, field hollers, and gospel screams, and the yodeling Wolf admired, a kind of eloquent speaking in tongues, giving voice to the suffering of human life expressed also in everyday life at times as wordless sighs or weeping. 

     Against a background of highly conventionalized set phrases, the title image stands out dramatically.  “Smokestack lightning” had appeared earlier in songs by the Charlie Patton and Mississippi Sheiks as well as by Wolf himself. [2]  In spite of this small place in tradition, the expression reportedly puzzled bassist Willie Dixon. [3]  Though discussion continues, Wolf provided a simple and convincing comment on the origin of the image: "We used to sit out in the country and see the trains go by, watch the sparks come out of the smokestack. That was smokestack lightning." [4] 

    In Howlin’ Wolf’s song, the image accumulates all the more signification due to its underdetermination.  A semiotic map of “smokestack lightning” would begin with the direct reference to a steam railway locomotive smokestack which triggers associations common to the blues in which trains suggest most often loss and love longing but sometimes escape and liberation.  The trains were a dramatic intrusion of the outside world for the farm worker, representing specifically the exit from local life, the route to the cities and the North.  The train as an agent of change was often the herald of suffering and its mechanical might seemed all but supernatural.  Countless songs refer to the train separating one-time lovers. [5]  In the song’s immediate predecessors the train’s stack is associated with loss.  Patton sang that the train’s appearance “give me the blues” because the singer is “'fraid she's gettin' on board.”  The railroad association is more tenuous though the separation is more final in the Mississippi Sheiks usage in which the singer is “cryin'” due to finding “my baby/ Layin' on the coolin' floor.”  The melancholy connotations of the train cling to it even when there is no question of anyone riding out of town, when, in fact, the train is reduced to pure symbol.

     The suggestive potency of the striking image of “smokestack lightning” is not limited to the mournful associations of its sound at night, a use reminiscent of the role of the calls of wild geese in Chinese poetry.  The fiery combustion of the engine, its titanic pressures and terrific heat, represent as well the strength of libido that drives all creatures always forward.  The great clouds of steam and smoke generated by a steam locomotive provide a glimpse into the churning heart of life itself.  The glowing sparks seem animated germs of existence.

     Convention is often opposed to innovation and denigrated by critics, though in fact a discerning use of convention allows the economical expression of themes of great complexity.  In Howlin’ Wolf’s “Smokestack Lightning” both musical and verbal resources are restricted to the bare minimum, and one single “floating image,” that of “smokestack lightning,” governs the entire song like that single insistent chord against a tissue of blues commonplaces and even more universal non-verbal utterances.  The image is the richer and the deeper for its measure of indeterminacy.  The songc is a classic not of complexity, but of fierce single-minded intensity, both in feeling and in structure.  Beginning and then periodically dissolving in inarticulate vocalizations, against a collage of floating phrases with great elliptical gaps the listener must complete, the song unforgettably portrays the suffering of the singer as the driving music indicates the unfailing energy to persist in the face of pain and loss. 

 

 1.  “Smoke Stack Lightning” was released in 1956.  In subsequent recording and most covers the song is called “Smokestack Lightning.”  The band consisted of Howlin' Wolf singing and playing harmonica, Hosea Lee Kennard on piano, Willie Johnson and Hubert Sumlin on guitars, Willie Dixon on bass, and Earl Phillips on drums.

 2.  Patton’s “Moon Going Down” (1929) contains the line: “Lord, the smokestack is black and the bell it shine like, bell it shine like, bell it shine like gold/ Oh the smokestack is black and the bell it shine like gold.”  The Mississippi Sheiks’ “Stop and Listen Blues” (1930) contains the lines “Cryin', smokestack lightning/ That bell that shine like gold.”  In 1951 Wolf had released "Crying at Daybreak" which uses the same image: “Smokestack lightnin', shining just like gold/ Honey do you hear me crying?”

3. According to James Segrest.  See his The Life and Times of Howlin' Wolf. 

4.  This line is quoted hundreds of times, including in the “Smokestack Lightning” entry in Rolling Stone’s list of “500 Greatest Rock and Roll Songs, but I have not located its first appearance in print. 

5.  The range of train references in rural songs is suggested by a few examples: “Railroad Blues” by Sam McGee, a white country singer, who says he “went to the depot, looked up on the board/ It read "Good times here, but better down the road."  In “Dixie Flyer Blues” by Bessie Smith the female speaker is leaving, while in Little Junior Parker’s “Mystery Train” she’s likewise on her way, but the persona is male.  In Robert Johnson’s “Love in Vain” it is unclear who is taking the train.  Many songs (such as Henry Thomas’ “Railroadin’” refer to travel by freight train, while in others such as Leadbelly’s “Midnight Special” (and Johnny Cash’s “Folsom Prison Blues”) the train is simply the emblem of freedom.  In Big Bill Broonzy’s “Too Too Train” the engine is a dynamo outdone by a lover’s energy.

 

And she do a little of this

And mama and she do a little of that

And when she put on full steam

Make a freight train jump a track

 

 

 

 

 

 

Smokestack Lightning {Howlin’ Wolf] 1956

 

 

Ah oh, smokestack lightnin'

Shinin', just like gold

Why don't ya hear me cryin'?

 

Whoo hoo

Whoo hoo

Whoo

 

Whoa oh, tell me, baby

What's the, matter with you?

Why don't ya hear me cryin'?

 

Whoo hoo

Whoo hoo

Whoo

 

Whoa oh, tell me, baby

Where did ya stay last night?

A-why don't ya hear me cryin'?

 

Whoo hoo

Whoo hoo

Whoo

 

Whoa-oh, stop your train

Let her, go for a ride

Why don't ya hear me cryin'?

 

Whoo hoo

Whoo hoo

Whoo

 

Whoa-oh, fare ya well

Never see, a you no more

A-why don't ya hear me cryin'?

 

Whoo hoo

Whoo hoo

Whoo

 

Whoa-oh, who been here baby since,

I-I been gone, a little, bitty boy

Girl, be on

 

Whoo hoo

Whoo hoo

Whoo

 

Whoa, smokestack lightnin'

Shinin' just like gold

Why don't you hear me cryin'?

A-whoo-hoo, a-whoo-hoo, whoo

Whoa-oh, tell me, baby

What's the matter here?

Why don't you hear me cryin'?

Whoo-hoo, whoo-hoo, whoo

Whoa-oh, tell me, baby

Where did you stay last night?

Why don't you hear me cryin'?

Whoo-hoo, whoo-hoo, whoo

Whoa-oh, stop your train

Let a poor boy ride

Why don't you hear me cryin'?

Whoo-hoo, whoo-hoo, whoo

Whoa-oh, fare-you-well

Never see a you no more

Why don't you hear me cryin'?

Whoo-hoo, whoo-hoo, whoo

Whoa-oh, who been here baby since

I, I been gone a little bitty boy?

Girl, be on        [heard by some as “derby on”]

A-whoo-hoo, whoo-hoo, whoo

 

 

 

 

Crying At Daybreak [Howlin’ Wolf] 1951

 

 

Tell me baby, what's done matter now

Today been a long and lonesome day

Lonesome day

 

Smokestack lightnin', shining just like gold

Honey do you hear me crying?

 

Today been a long and sad old day

Don't you hear me crying

 

Tell me baby what you got on your mind

Why don't you hear me crying

 

Ain't gonna marry, ain't gonna settle down

Why don't you hear me crying

 

 

 

 

Big Road Blues [Tommy Johnson] 1928

 

 

Cryin', ain't goin' down this big road by myself

Now don't you hear me talkin', pretty mama?

Lord, ain't goin' down this big road by myself

If I don't carry you, gon' carry somebody else

Cryin', sun gonna shine in my back door someday

Now, don't you hear me talkin', pretty mama?

Lord, sun gon' shine in my back door someday

And the wind gon' change, gon' blow my blues away

Baby, what makes you do me like you do do do, like you do do do?

Don't you hear me now?

What makes you do me like you do do do?

Now you think you gon' do me like you done poor Cherry Red

Taken the poor boy's money now, sure, Lord, won't take mine

Now don't you hear me talkin' pretty mama?

Taken the poor boy's money; sure, Lord, won't take mine

Taken the poor boy's money now; sure, Lord, won't take mine

Cryin', ain't goin' down this big road by myself

Now, don't you hear me talkin', pretty mama?

Lord, ain't goin' down this big road by myself

If I don't carry you, gon' carry somebody else

Cryin', sun gon' shine, Lord, my back door someday

Now don't you hear me talkin', pretty mama?

Lord, sun gon' shine in my back door someday

And the wind gon' change, blow my blues away

 

 

 

 

Stop and Listen Blues [Mississippi Sheiks] 1930

 

 

Ev'r day have been there

Long old lonesome day

Now don't ya a-hear me talkin', pretty mama?

Ev'r day have been

Long old lonesome day

Cry, it seem like you-ooo would

Be there ooo-ooo, same old way

 

Cryin', smokestack lightning

That bell that shine like gold

Now don't ya a-hear me talkin', pretty mama?

Ooh, smokestack lightning

Bells that shine like gold

Cryin', I found my baby

Layin' on the coolin' floor

 

Don't a hearse look lonesome, mama

Rollin' for yo' do'?

Now don't ya a-hear me talkin', pretty mama?

Don't a hearse look lonesome

 

Rollin' for yo' do'?

Cryin' she's gone, tell you-ooo, Lord

Won't be-ee-ee back no mo'

 

Ooh, stop and listen

Hear how those bells in toll

Now don't ya a-hear me talkin', pretty mama?

Ooh, stop and listen

Hear the bell it tolls

I had a sweet little faror

But she's dead and gone

 

 

 

 

Moon Going Down [Charlie Patton] 1930 

 

 

Aw, the moon is going down baby, sun's about to shine

Aw, the moon's going down baby, sun's about to shine

Rosetta Henry told me, "Lord, I don't want you hangin' round"

Oh well, where were you now baby, Clarksdale mill burned down?

Oh well, where were you now babe, Clarksdale mill burned down?

(Boy, you know where I were)

I were way down'n Sunflower with my face all full of frown

There's a house over yonder, painted all over green

There's a house over yonder, painted all over green

(Boy, you know I know it's over there)

Lord, the finest young women, Lord, a man most ever seen

Lord, I think I heard that Taylor whistle, Taylor whistle, Taylor whistle blow

Lord, I think I heard that Taylor whistle

(Well now I hear it blowin')

Lord, I ain't gonna stop walkin' 'til I get in my rider's door

Lord, the smokestack is black and the bell it shine like, bell it shine like, bell it shine like gold

Oh the smokestack is black and the bell it shine like gold.

(Cover me boy, you know it looks good to me)

Lord, I ain't gonna walk there, ah, babe ain't 'round no more

Aw, I evil was at midnight, 'til I heard the local blow

I was evil out at night, when I heard the local blow

(Boy it give me the blues...)

I got to see my rider, 'fraid she's gettin' on board

 

Sea Shells

 

     Who as a child did not prize among treasured possessions a collection of sea shells?  Many were souvenirs, gathered along the shore during vacations, others may have been gifts or curio shop purchases.  Many of us were undiscriminating; while fancying the novel and colorful, we prized ordinary specimens hardly less.  We may have in fact been developing a subtler taste.  A receptive eye will find magic in every broken sand dollar!  Somehow a good many conch shells had been carried far from the Caribbean; those that had escaped the indignity of being made into lamps could be used for the meditative purpose of “hearing the ocean.”  Wordsworth, receptive always to commonplace profundities, describes a “curious child” listening to a shell and experiencing thereby a “Mysterious union with his native sea.” As if this were not enough, he explicates: “Even in such a shell the Universe itself/ Is to the ear of Faith.” [1]

     But that calming mantra proceeding from the pink and pearly threshold of the conch’s extraordinary home is hardly the only appeal of shells.   A handful of commonplace shells, in a box in the back of a drawer, sitting amid a few grains of sand, can renew the wonder of an encounter with the immensities of the sea.  Though hard and calcareous, there is something in the unique opalescent cream-tones so common in malacological collections reminiscent of milk and semen and the bright heart of things. 

     Even to a child, shells might be in many ways instructive apart from their beauty.  I once collected a pailful of living Pacific mollusks and left them outside my motel door, expecting to play with them again as I had on the beach, but found the heap a sad and stinking mess of death the next day, a disturbing elemental revelation of mortality.  

     The wonder such objects inspire is evident not only in memories of childhood, but also in the earlier days of our species.  Large architectural shells have been fashioned into trumpets since palaeolithic times, though the details of their original uses must remain obscure.  We know, however, about Poseidon’s son Triton, usually represented as a merman, his lower half a fish, who, in his role as herald or messenger for Poseidon blew a large shell, perhaps a conch (though today the Charonia, a large sea snail, is commonly called Triton's trumpet).  After the flood that left only Deucalion and Pyrrha surviving, Triton manifests at Neptune’s behest to sound his shell-trumpet, and the waters only then take heed and begin to retreat.  According to Ovid Triton was draped “in purple shells,” and the fact is that the Murex snail’s shells were used to produce the very prestigious Tyrian purple dye, called also royal purple and Phoenician red. 

     Shell trumpets were in fact used in battle just as bugles are today. [2]  To the Greeks of Classical times, they already seemed a sign of a primitive people.  Thus in Euripedes [3] it is used by the backward Taurians, while Theocritus describes its use a Bebrycian in  Bithynia. [4]  In Vergil Misenus played his concha like a virtuoso and dared the gods to outdo him whereupon Triton threw him to the rocks to drown. [5]  Even in antiquity’s sunset, Nonnos tells us that Dionysos can be heard, blowing a shell trumpet amid troops of bacchantes and satyrs as he speeds into battle against the Indians. [6]The Indians would have recognized the consch as an emblem of Vishnu.  The Japanese similarly used shell trumpets, called jinkai, in war, as did the Aztecs who called theirs quiquiztli and many South Pacific peoples, including Fijians (davui), and Maoris (pūtātara). 

     War is not the only theater in which the dramatic sound of the shell trumpet plays a role.  Shell trumpets are used in in the Japanese Buddhist goma ritual of the Shingon and Shugendo sects.  In Polynesia, South America and the Caribbean, they have been used for calls to prayer, funerals, and in apotropaic rituals.  In Malta such instruments are called bronja or tronga and are used for less portentous occasions, blown to notify farmers that the windmills are operating and capable of grinding grain.  Today conch-blowing performers greet cruise passengers in the Marquesas and entertain the patrons of the Hyatt Regency in Honolulu.

      Sea shells may signify love as well as war.  The beauty of cowries is suggested by the fact that the word porcelain derives from the old Italian term for the animal (porcellana).  The lovely complementarity of the one side swelling outward in a smooth mound and the other side with its rippled vent, opening into an unseeable mystery, may have contributed to the shell’s acquisition of symbolic value through association with the female genitals, as attested by both the common name in ancient Rome concha veneris and the scientific subfamily today – Cypraeidae.   Native people in California’s Great Basin called the shells in their own language, “cunts” and prepared their dinner with a phallic mortar and a pestle bowl rimmed in cowries, considering their subsistence and thus their kitchenware hallowed as a gift of coyote. [7]  Today many New Age and African-oriented websites market cowries as a “fertility charm.” 

     Cowrie-shaped amulets are found in ancient Egypt, often in the form of belts or girdles worn about women’s waists, often along with other symbols of generation such as tattoos of Bes.  Cowries of pure gold that accompanied Princess Sithathoryunet to her tomb almost four thousand years ago contained metal balls that would tinkle as she moved, likely providing an apotropaic effect similar to that of the Roman phallic tintinnabulae.

     Perhaps the value acquired through these connotations played a role in the widespread use of cowries for money in Africa and Asia as well as ancient Egypt.  They have found myriad other uses as well, among them as aids in contacting the Orixás in New World settings reflecting Yoruba tradition, called búzios in the practice of Candomblé and Umbanda and in Santería called diloggún.  They are used in divination by the Kaniyar Panicker in Kerala, a group today designated a “backward tribe” by the government though their advanced academies of astrology, ayurvedic medicine, and philosophy gave them once the reputation of scholars.  Less magical uses include the control of livestock according to Plutarch [8]. 

     The story of the miraculous appearance of dew in Gideon’s fleece, taken as a type of the conception of Christ, led to the association of shells with the Virgin Mary.  This connection, prominent in the treatment of the Physiologus [9] associated shells with Mary and a pearl, like the dew Gideon saw, as a representation of the Incarnation.  The round and perfect pearl, according to the second century writer, “removes the uncleanness of the sea” as Christ forgives sin.  In addition the author says that the two shells of a bivalve signify the two Testaments.  Supported by other church fathers [10] and by the continuing popularity of various versions of the Physiologus, shells found their way into religious iconography in paintings by Piero della Francesca and others.  In the dome of Pisa’s cathedral an annunciation scene includes a shell and pearl and the legend rore coelesti foecundor (“heaven’s dew will make me fruitful”). 

     Because of their habitats not far from Santiago de Campostela, scallop shells were one of the first popular souvenirs.  Symbolic of pilgrimage, they are today visible as icons on signs along the route today.   Such shells were also used in baptism and included in the design of baptismal fonts long after they were no longer used. 

     Those if us of a certain age encountered in school a more generally spiritual metaphor in Holmes’ “The Chambered Nautilus,” while Tennyson found a shell a “miracle” of beauty though he felt he had to ornament the natural object with fanciful images.

 

Did he stand at the diamond door           

Of his house in a rainbow frill?   

Did he push, when he was uncurl’d,        

A golden foot or a fairy horn       

Thro’ his dim water-world?  [11]

  

     Material facts determine in part the fascination of sea shells.  These mollusks and other creatures occupy our world, but in a dimension most people never enter.  A cliché of scuba divers likens their experiences to those of astronauts in space (including virtual weightlessness), but the land beneath the sea is busy with a myriad strange animals.  Vertebrates share a common body structure; the bones of mice and men very nearly match, and even insects and fish have predictable body parts, but submarine life seems freed from all prescriptions, capable of taking practically any shape: sea stars, octopus, sea horse, jellyfish, coral.   Animals like bivalves have, perhaps fortunately for the diner who likes them on the half-shell, no identifiable organs.  Apart from its viscous softness and vulnerability, little sign of its life reaches us.  Once seized from their home, shellfish become mute and stubbornly unwilling to reveal their secrets with the fortunate exception of their subtle and ravishing flavor.   

     During the hyperaesthetic Heian period in Japan when aristocrats enjoyed poetry improvisation competitions called uto-amare, a game developed called e-awase in which the players painted small pictures in clam shells on assigned topics.  In its later Kamakura form kai-awase the shells were prepainted and the object of the game was to find matching pairs (called male and female) in a set of three hundred and sixty painted shells.  Today many such shells available in tourist shops are decorated with decals rather than painted and the actual game is seldom played.

       A shell is by definition a concealment, hiding a mystery within.  If its contents remain incognito, what one may see provides a marvelous distraction.  Some shells have intricate sculptural reliefs like angel-wings or painted patterns like even the humble cockle.  The channeled duck clam is often pure white and features the most delicate and tasteful minimalist lines, while the sundial snail (scientific name is the grand Architectonica perspectiva) seen from above resembles not so much a garden timekeeper as a cosmic whorl, an image of the immediate aftermath of the Big Bang. 

     The creatures of the sea approach us as well through smell and taste as they are perhaps the most delectable of human foods for those willing to eat flesh.  The saline taste of the ocean enhances the full and rounded sweetness of clams and of oysters, at once so rich and so austere.  Mussels are a more frugal delight, their orange-pink bodies savory and fine, their broth little short of elixir.  Once, in a Seattle restaurant, I ordered scallops on the half-shell and discovered that rare thing, a new pleasure, with little in common with the abductor muscles labeled scallops in the supermarket 

      Looking at shells is like looking through a telescope at stars or through a microscope at a cell or exploring the interior of the body or the cryptic chambers of the mind.  If these creatures can inspire people to war, to bed, to the table and to church, they thereby associate themselves with the most significant realms of human desire.  Still, if they inspire some to poetry, they send others off for an afternoon nap.  A graceful note in a Renaissance painting or a kitschy ashtray.  They provide a glimpse into a new world, utterly foreign to everyday experience yet drawing the eye with irresistible beauty.  The student of sea shells, like the diner facing a plate of clams and oysters, will in the end find an intimate relevance to human life in these elegant and exotic animals. 

 

    

 

1.  “The Sea Shell.”


2.  The battle trumpet of the ancient Hebrew-speaking people was, of course, no shell at all, but a horn, the shofar.  See, for instance, Judges 6:34 or Joshua 6:4-20.

 

3.  Iphigenia in Tauris. 303.  Ares wields a shell trumpet according to Lycophron.

 

4.  Idyll 22, l. 75.  Bithyina is also a genus of snails.

 

5.  Aeneid 6.171ff

 

6.  Dionysiaca 17.93-94.

 

7.  Henry Koerper, “Cowry Shells: Fertility/Fecundity Symbols In Southern California Iconography,” Journal of California and Great Basin Anthropology Vol. 23, No. 1.

 

8.  Table-Talk, 7.8, 713B.

 

9.  XXIV.

 

10.  Isidore, for instance, says that pearls are conceived by means of celestial (caelestis) dew

(Etymologies 12.6).  See also Clement of Alexandria, Origen, and Efrem the Syrian.

 

11.  “The Shell” in Maud I.