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by contrast as feminine as the soul when it explores in blakes picture the recesses of the grave； carrying its faint lamp trembling and astonished； or as the muses who are never pictured as one？breasted amazons； but as women needing protection。 indeed； all art which appeals to individual man and awaits the confirmation of his senses and his reveries； seems when arrayed against the moral zeal； the confident logic； the ordered proof of journalism； a trifling； impertinent； vexatious thing； a tumbler who has unrolled his carpet in the way of a marching army。
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Synge And The Ireland Of His TimeVI
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i attack things that are as dear to many as some holy image carried hither and thither by some broken clan； and can but say that i have felt in my body the affections i disturb； and believed that if i could raise them into contemplation i would make possible a literature； that finding its subject？matter all ready in mens minds would be； not as ours is； an interest for scholars； but the possession of a people。 i have founded societies with this aim； and was indeed founding one in paris when i first met with j。m。 synge； and i have known what it is to be changed by that i would have changed； till i became argumentative and unmannerly； hating men even in daily life for their opinions。 and though i was never convinced that the anatomies of last years leaves are a living forest； or thought a continual apologetic could do other than make the soul a vapour and the body a stone； or believed that literature can be made by anything but by what is still blind and dumb within ourselves； i have had to learn how hard in one who lives where forms of expression and habits of thought have been born； not for the pleasure of begetting but for the public good； is that purification from insincerity； vanity； malignity； arrogance； which is the discovery of style。 but it became possible to live when i had learnt all i had not learnt in shaping words； in defending synge against his enemies； and knew that rich energies； fine； turbulent or gracious thoughts； whether in life or letters； are but love？children。
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Synge And The Ireland Of His TimeVII
（小//说；网/
synge seemed by nature unfitted to think a political thought； and with the exception of one sentence； spoken when i first met him in paris； that implied some sort of nationalist conviction； i cannot remember that he spoke of politics or showed any interest in men in the mass； or in any subject that is studied through abstractions and statistics。 often for months together he and i and lady gregory would see no one outside the abbey theatre； and that life； lived as it were in a ship at sea； suited him； for unlike those whose habit of mind fits them to judge of men in the mass； he was wise in judging individual men； and as wise in dealing with them as the faint energies of ill？health would permit； but of their political thoughts he long understood nothing。 one night when we were still producing plays in a little hall； certain members of the pany told him that a play on the rebellion of 98 would be a great success。 after a fortnight he brought them a scenario which read like a chapter out of rabelais。 two women； a protestant and a catholic； take refuge in a cave； and there quarrel about religion； abusing the pope or queen elizabeth and henry viii； but in low voices； for the one fears to be ravished by the soldiers； the other by the rebels。 at last one woman goes out because she would sooner any fate than such wicked pany。 yet； i doubt if he would have written at all if he did not write of ireland； and for it； and i know that he thought creative art could only e from such preoccupation。
once； when in later years； anxious about the educational effect of our movement； i proposed adding to the abbey pany a second pany to play international drama； synge； who had not hitherto opposed me； thought the matter so important that he did so in a formal letter。
i had spoken of a german municipal theatre as my model； and he said that the municipal theatres all over europe gave fine performances of old classics but did not create （he disliked modern drama for its sterility of speech； and perhaps ignored it） and that we would create nothing if we did not give all our thoughts to ireland。
yet in ireland he loved only what was wild in its people； and in the grey and wintry sides of many glens。 all the rest； all that one reasoned over； fought for； read of in leading articles； all that came from education； all that came down from young ireland？？though for this he had not lacked a little sympathy？？first wakened in him perhaps that irony which runs through all he wrote； but once awakened； he made it turn its face upon the whole of life。 the women quarrelling in the cave would not have amused him； if something in his nature had not looked out on most disputes； even those wherein he himself took sides； with a mischievous wisdom。 he told me once that when he lived in some peasants house； he tried to make those about him forget that he was there； and it is certain that he was silent in any crowded room。 it is possible that low vitality helped him to be observant and contemplative； and made him dislike； even in solitude； those thoughts which unite us to others； much as we all dislike； when fatigue or illness has sharpened the nerves； hoardings covered with advertisements； the fronts of big theatres； big london hotels； and all architecture which has been made to impress the crowd。 what blindness did for homer； lameness for hephaestus； asceticism for any saint you will； bad health did for him by making him ask no more of life than that it should keep him living； and above all perhaps by concentrating his imagination upon one thought； health itself。 i think that all noble things are the result of warfare； great nations and classes； of warfare in the visible world； great poetry and philosophy； of invisible warfare； the division of a mind within itself； a victory； the sacrifice of a man to himself。 i am certain that my friends noble art； so full of passion and heroic beauty； is the victory of a man who in poverty and sickness created from the delight of expression； and in the contemplation that is born of the minute and delicate arrangement of images； happiness； and health of mind。 some early poems have a morbid melancholy； and he himself spoke of early work he had destroyed as morbid； for as yet the craftmanship was not fine enough to bring the artists joy which is of one substance with that of sanctity。 in one poem he waits at some street corner for a friend； a woman perhaps； and while he waits and gradually understands that nobody is ing； sees two funerals and shivers at the future； and in another written on his 25th birthday； he wonders if the 25 years to e shall be as evil as those gone by。 later on； he can see himself as but a part of the spectacle of the world and mix into all he sees that flavour of extravagance； or of humour； or of philosophy； that makes one understand that he contemplates even his own death as if it were anothers； and finds in his own destiny but as it were a projection through a burning glass of that general to men。 there is in the creative joy an acceptance of what life bring