vate life that fell within his scope, he was able to dramatize the relation of the new world to the old, thus driving the wedge of historical consciousness into the very heart of the theme of experience. Later not a few attempts were made to combine experience with consciousness, to achieve the balance of thought and being characteristic of the great traditions of European art. But except for certain narratives of James and Melville, I know of very little American fiction which can unqualifiedly be said to have attained this end.
Since the decline of the regime of gentility many admirable works have been produced, but in the main it is the quality of felt life comprised in them that satisfies, not their quality of belief or interpretive range. In poetry there is evidence of more distinct gains, perhaps because the medium has reached that late stage in its evolution when its chance of survival depends on its capacity to absorb ideas. The modern poetic styles--metaphysical and symbolist--depend on a conjunction of feeling and idea. But, generally speaking, bare experience is still the leitmotif of the American writer, though the literary depression of recent years tends to show that this theme is virtually exhausted. At bottom it was the theme of the individual transplanted from an old culture taking inventory of himself and of his new surroundings. This inventory, this initial recognition and experiencing of oneself and one's surroundings, is all but complete now, and those who persist in going on with it are doing so out of mere routine and inertia.
The creative power of the cult of experience is almost spent, but what lies beyond is still unclear. One thing, however, is certain: whereas in the past, throughout the nineteenth and well into the twentieth century, the nature of American literary life was largely determined by national forces, now it is international forces that have begun to exert a dominant influence. And in the long run it is in the terms of this historic change that the future course of American writing will define itself.
R. P. Blackmur
Something like a century ago Alexis de Tocqueville in the second volume of his great work, La Démocratie en Amérique, made the following observations on The Trade of Literature:
Democracy not only fuses a taste for letters among the trading classes, but introduces a trading spirit into literature.
In aristocracies, readers are fastidious and few in number; in democracies, they are far more numerous and far less difficult to please. The consequence is, that among aristocratic nations no one can hope to succeed without immense exertions and that these exertions may bestow a great deal of fame, but can never earn much money; while among democratic na-