Author: David Spiech Page 254 of 283

To Mary Whitall Smith Berenson
22 Beaumont St.
Oxford, England. [September or October, 1918]

Last night a mouse got into my bed, in which I have an ascetic preference for remaining alone, and it crossed my mind that perhaps the time was coming for a change of quarters: but I am somehow so anchored here, that it will take at least a second attack on the part of this rodent to part my cables.

From The Letters of George Santayana:  Book Two, 1910-1920.  Cambridge, MA: The MIT Press, 2001.
Location of manuscript: Villa I Tatti, Settignano, Italy.

To Wallace J. Maclean
Via Santo Stefano Rotondo, 6
Rome. September 23, 1946

Dear Mr. Maclean,

A person who calls himself my disciple and takes the pains to write an interesting letter, deserves an answer. . . .

That my “Idea of Christ” should be disappointing does not surprise me. What might have pleased would have been a fancy life of Jesus, showing that he was a Democrat and not a Totalitarian. I think some one some day may write a Life of Jesus that could be called historical, not in its episodes and personages, which would be traditional, but in the picture of the Soul of Jesus, torn by incompatible ideas and affections. But the author would have to know all about the times and the various sects in conflict; and he would have to dislike the Christian Idea of Christ, or God-in-Man. Now, my book is written in sympathy with that idea, and prudent reserve about the life of Jesus, which I feel was very tragic. But God-in-Man is an eternal theme, not a problem for historical guess-work. That is why it interests me.

Yours sincerely,
G Santayana

From The Letters of George Santayana:  Book Seven, 1941-1947.  Cambridge, MA: The MIT Press, 2006.
Location of manuscript: The Houghton Library, Harvard University, Cambridge MA

To Herbert Jacob Seligmann
C/o Brown Shipley & Co
123, Pall Mall, London, S.W.1.
Paris. September 22, 1930

Dear Mr. Seligmann,

It is very pleasant to be reminded, after so many years, of the sympathy which existed between us when we were teacher and pupil; and I am glad to see that the Firebird that was then already stirring within you has not been smothered by the pressure of circumstances. I remember that your mother secretly wrote to me—I suppose after twenty years or more that secret need not be kept—to express her anxiety about your temperament and inclinations: she feared perhaps that you might be unhappy in the world. I judge by certain indications in this little book that the world has not been too unkind: yet you seem, at bottom, not to be very much interested in it, only in images and in a certain spiritual freedom which transcends all accidental facts. Images, sensual and atmospheric, can’t be well described in words, and you are troubled like all contemporary poets, by a medium which is inappropriate, and of which you haven’t an adequate command: because language is a splendid medium in itself, if you are an artist in it, and if your interests are dramatic or intellectual: but pure images rather require to be preserved in painting or created by music. Your verses, in this direction, are simply so many proofs that images do arrest you, and that things and events do not: there is a philosophy for you, and a characteristically modern one. It is well expressed in your “Brooklyn Bridge”: but it seems to me that, for a poet, this is rather a confession of impotence; because the world if mastered and exploited humanly, ought to be far more interesting to the mind and heart than sensuous images which remain meaningless. When I came to the Firebird proper, at first I supposed that of course it was Love; but after reading, it seemed rather to be Truth: in any case, here is the spirit passing beyond the images and the facts into some abyss where it feels more at home. Every one has his own way of feeling and expressing these ultimate things, but there is much unanimity among mystics of all ages and religions, and we shouldn’t quarrel about vehicles and accidents when it is precisely accidents and vehicles that we wish to transcend. Thank you for remembering me: you see I haven’t forgotten you.

Yours sincerely,
G Santayana

From The Letters of George Santayana:  Book Four, 1928–1932.  Cambridge, MA: The MIT Press, 2003.
Location of manuscript: The Pierpont Morgan Library, New York NY

To Harry Slochower
Hotel Bristol
Rome. September 18, 1937

I am also in doubt about “social humanism” being implicit in my physics. Materialism may, psychologically, be allied in the materialist’s mind with one or another view in ethics and politics. That will depend, if materialism is true, on the man’s heritage and circumstances. In that sense I entirely accept historical materialism, which is only an application of materialism to history. But the phrase carries now an association with Hegelian or Marxian dialectic, which if meant to be more than the doctrine of universal flux, is a denial of materialism. My personal sympathies are personal, and of no ultimate importance: what is implied in my natural philosophy is that all moralities and inspirations are natural, biological, animal preferences or obsessions, changing and passing with the organisms and habits that gave them birth. This is not the Catholic doctrine, which you say I represent; but it is quite compatible with liking Catholic ways, considered as a form of human society and human imagination. Yet even there, I prefer the Greeks.

From The Letters of George Santayana:  Book Six, 1937-1940.  Cambridge, MA: The MIT Press, 2004.
Location of manuscript: Brooklyn College Library, Brooklyn NY

To Benjamin de Casseres
Hotel Bristol
Rome. September 17, 1938

Dear Mr. De Casseres,

My “friends”, who said I was no poet—and I agreed with them—were exquisites of the 1890’s. Perhaps you are too young to remember that “aesthetic” age. I am not ashamed of my compositions in verse—not all published—but I feel that they are not English poetry. They are Latin eloquence. The recipe for the dish is, first, to have a clear thought expressible in prose, which carries with it, in your mind, a definite emotion, and 2^nd to heighten or leaven it with meter, alliteration, and allusions to kindred matters, so that an educated man (like the author) can vibrate largely and sympathetically to the whole thing. When well done, this is a splendid production, like a mature beautiful woman sumptuously dressed for a ball. Now, personally, that is the kind of woman I would rather look at and talk with. She is imposing, she is rational, she says true and wise things, she has the fragrance of good society, and no nonsense, about her. And accordingly, for my own satisfaction, I like to say over to myself at night, when not sleepy, long fragments of Horace, Racine, and Leopardi, that delight me as the ideal great lady would—I know love is something else, less satisfying in the end, but sweeter in the beginning.

I am very well, in spite of being near the end of my 75^th year, and hope soon to finish the last volume of my system of philosophy. I have other things half done, to entertain me, if I should still live on, but they are not parts of the programme, so that I shall feel at liberty to indulge my mood or my laziness. The world at this moment is so interesting, that there is some difficulty in getting well out of it mentally, so as to describe it from outside, which is what my kind of philosophy aspires to do.

Thank you for your generous letter. If I didn’t know from your little books—for which also many thanks—that you are an enthusiast by nature, I should be tempted to write verses again. But I have sworn off. I did so after the 1890’s. Yeats was one of the “friends”—I have seen him once only—that liked my “Interpretations of Poetry & Religion” but said the trouble with me was that I thought I was a poet.

Yours sincerely,
G Santayana

From The Letters of George Santayana:  Book Six, 1937-1940.  Cambridge, MA: The MIT Press, 2004.
Location of manuscript: Unknown