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available life. This is the paradox of the unique history in early naturalism: that it is of an individual
who is breaking away from what is offered as a general truth: a uniquely representative figure
(representative of 'humanity', of 'Man') who is in revolt against the environment other men have
made.
E. Wilson, Axel's Castle: In the later prose plays of Ibsen, the trolls and ghosts of his early dramatic
poems have begun to creep back into the bourgeois drawing-rooms: the Naturalist has been finally
compelled to make cracks in his own mould. All that vaporous, confused and grandiose world of
Romanticism had been resolutely ordered and compressed; but now the objective point of view of
Naturalism, the machine-line technique which went with it, begin to cramp the poet's imagination,
to prove inadequate to convey what he feels. The reader begins to chafe at the strain, and the artist
begins to betray it Literature is rebounding again from the scientific-classical pole to the poeticromantic one.
B. Shaw, The Quintessence of Ibsenism: To the Realist, ideals are only swaddling clothes which
man has outgrown, and which insufferably impede his movements The Realist declares that when
a man abnegates the will to live and be free in a world of the living and free, seeking only to
conform to ideals for the sake of being, not himself, but "a good man", then he is morally dead and
rotten, and must be left unheeded to abide his resurrection, if that by good luck arrive before his
bodily death.
H. Ibsen, Ghosts: I am frightened and timid, because I am obsessed by the presence of ghosts that I
never can get rid of... I am half inclined to think we are all ghosts. It is not only what we have
inherited from our fathers and mothers that exists again in us, but all sorts of old dead ideas and all
kinds of old dead beliefs and things of that kind. They are not actually alive in us; but there they are
dormant, all the same, and we can never be rid of them. Whenever I take up a newspaper and read
it, I fancy I see ghosts creeping between the lines. There must be ghosts all over the world. They
must be as countless as the grains of the sands, it seems to me. And we are so miserably afraid of
the light, all of us.
T. S. Eliot, The Cocktail Party:
- I can reconcile you to the human condition,
The condition to which some who have gone as far as you
Have succeeded in returning.
- I know I ought to be able to accept that
If I might still have it. Yet it leaves me cold.
Perhaps thats just a part of my illness,
But I feel it would be a kind of surrender No, not a surrender - more like a betrayal.
You see, I think I really had a vision of something
Though I dont know what it is. I dont want to forget it.
I want to live with it. I could do without everything,
Put up with anything, if I might cherish it.
In fact, I think it would really be dishonest
For me, now, to try to make a life with anybody!
I couldnt give anyone the kind of love I wish I could - which belongs to that life.