V
1
rfrinr (f a A irir ) SrTTVTTnv 7 IKtlL? Ttf M A T. A 'TTTMTG1 OATH,!!?
1 1 I ...... ; , . : --.. ,. . . . ; 1 .
' j ' ' ' I .
vfflmSm Ml:
. tmmm--:- Immmmak
m .
DOES writing poetry cause Insanity?
Does wooing the muse drive men
insane, produce hallucinations,
make idiots of poets and produce disease?
Is it the most dangerous occupation lu
the world T . -
George ,, Sylvester Viereck, that shy
young poet of whom you may possibly
have heard, says so., ' He declares that
writing poetry is more dangerous than
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 ,ot the mind, it is
more to be feared than typhoid. '
V - Of course, Mr. Viereck. ought to know.
When Mr. Vlereck's first book of poema,
"Nineveh," was published several years
ago, it created a tremendous sensation,
and to this book, in Mr. .Vlereck's opinion, ,
have been due the crime waves and taxi
cab robberies that swept over New York;
"Wrote her kitchen
recipes in sonnet
form."
'A
Poet Viereck Explains How Wooing the Muse May
Bring the Queen of Sheba to Dinner, Cause the
Gold Fish to Stare, and Change Dogs into Lobsters
However, Mr. Viereck is never Vore
going to write a poem again, f Here he
tells why: .
The Perils of Poetry
By George Sylvester Viereck
T SHALL give P poetry for many rea
sons. Poetry 'leads to insanity, for
-r one thing;
poetry Induces
diseases, . for
another. I am
certain that
the Scientist is
right, who says
that most liter
ary geniuses
develop toxins
in their blood.
The writing of
poetry is un
healthy; my
health has been
better since I
decided to give
it up. ' More
over, it befogs
the brain. Most
of the men
poets I know
are idiots I
am one of the
few exceptions
of my acquaint
ance who are
not
Of course
poets are sup
posed to wor-.
ship beauty.
Most, as a mat- -ter
of fact
"Byron had convulsions whenever he heard
Kean recite."
wfVL0nl,y th6 PP'r mache imitation
but To bngir6
nM.r,?i?n(e nd name" will,' n
au likelihood, be my last book of verse.
I no longer worship Beauty. Art for art's
sake seems a jest, literature onty a
sicWy mirage of life. My temperament
is more dynamic than aesthetic Activity,
as such, allures me. Brooklvn Bridge
seems to me a far more mar
veljous accomplishment than
the most precious of sonnets.
If I were not Viereck, I would
gladly be Edison. I some
times suspect that I would,
rather hare 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
to 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."
BUlt of clothes, or a high
ball they think of it in
terms of verse. If they think
of love, the first thing that
occurs is what word can
rhyme to love. Their brains
- pingle.
Now In the middle ages,
when there were great paint
ers and poets, they , did not
speclaliie. They distributed
their interests. Some took
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
inganything practical. Richard Le Gal
lienne 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
" tlon except when I see my
self in a mirror.
Besides, being solely inter
ested in themselves, in In?
" aglntng that the universe
circles about them, most
poets are absolutely Hitter
. 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
news interest and he will look blankly
at you. The only interest of most poets
is in their own mawkish sentiments and
their verses. Now lite is the great, mis
tress of human beings arc Is only the
mirror. To love the image in the mirror
is unhealthy. Few . poets know anything
about life.
It is horrible to think of a person who
can only write; does nothing but write;
who simply draws from his brain "color-'
less images that do not exist; who feeds
upon himself, exaggerates his own Im
portance and ,' sees the world only, and
falsely . 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
madf : ' . " . - -
Writing poetry la worse than alcohoL
A man who gets drunk on alcohol may
get some benefit, as alcohoi 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 drlrk. It drives
many to the gutter. I hava no doubt the
very obsession of poetry drove Poe to
take relief in wine, that it drove him to
wander about, often half mad, and caused
him to suffer incredibly. It might have
been a wonderful thing for Poe had he,
like Le Oalllenne, taken to farming or like
Ella Wheeler Wilcox, interested himself
in ethics and sane newspaper editorials,
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
wrote fiction besides
poetry, . became Insane.
He thought so Intensely
of the terrible in
visible horror in his "Horla"
that he began to imagine the
thing existed and actually pur
sued him. I can well Imagine
that if I let myself go and
continued to write, and thought
of nothing but my poetic im
ageries, that in all reality I
should begin to. develop
hallucinations that the
"He became very
fond of that
water bug."
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 he went to the gardens of the
Tuilerles imagined he saw the gold fish
lifting their heads from the water and
inviting him to follow them into the
fountains.
Gerard 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 I 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 I decided to give up poetry the
dark no longer holds terrors for me,
Myt 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 Galllenne 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 I 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
of our younger poets would rejoice at
such an act
Chatterton killed himself. Klelst, a
widely known German poet did also.
Many thought of it, even if they didn't
carry out their intention among them
the poet Cooper. Perhaps it might have
been well if he had done so; It would
have saved the writing of much Inferior
drivel. , .
Baudelaire might 'as well . have killed
himself he died from general paresis.
He wrote wonderful poetry, but became
so mentally unbalanced that he took to
opium. He dyed his hair green. I know
of a few poets to-day who dye their hair
but not green. - One
day Baudelaire tried to
strangle his father-in-law
this fact, despite
the statement that he
died of softening of
the brain, leads me to
-uBpeci mat ne may
have had lucid moments.
Poetry drives many
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, used to com
pose with his feet on
ice. The odor of fer
menting apples delighted
him.
Byron,, it Is said,
had convulsions when
he heard Kern re
cite. He sometimes
imagined he was visited by a ghost
Poets develop all sorts of habits they
cannot control. I know a poetess who
worked vherself into the habit of writing
sonnets. It became an irresistible cus-
. ' .....
'Dragged a lobster around instead of a dog because a Jobstei
" " " never barks."
"De Maupassant often saw his
double."5
torn. 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 wall and
walking close to buildings in the streets.
Once I asked him why. "I am afraid, of
open spaces," he replied.
There Is a young poet In New York '
who writes beautiful poems about 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 would 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 more.
With even the greatest of writers,
the longer they write the more incompre-
sensible 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, I found it actu
ally necessary to write a commentary
in my last book explaining my. poems.
After I write verses I often forget what
tney mean. I must keep copious notes.
Why, if I kept on writing poetry until I
was thirty a boo of mine would simply
consist of one sonnet the rest would be
a commentary explaining it.
Recently I wrote a poem, "Pierrot Cru
cified." I forgot to make a note explaining
its meaning. And now, when I read it I
am mystified. . I can no longer under
stand my own poem. So this is the las
I shall write.
s
tH. -t tVT. V i