The War of Art

yet. You couldn’t play it. You couldn’t hear it.
     
    It needed someone. It needed a corporeal being, a human, an artist (or more precisely a genius , in the Latin sense of “soul” or “animating spirit”) to bring it into being on this material plane. So the Muse whispered in Beethoven’s ear. Maybe she hummed a few bars into a million other ears. But no one else heard her. Only Beethoven got it.
     
    He brought it forth. He made the Fifth Symphony a “creation of time,” which “eternity” could be “in love with.”
     
    So that eternity, whether we conceive of it as God, pure consciousness, infinite intelligence, omniscient spirit, or if we choose to think of it as beings, gods, spirits, avatars —when “it” or “they” hear somehow the sounds of earthly music, it brings them joy.
     
    In other words, Blake agrees with the Greeks. The gods do exist. They do penetrate our earthly sphere.
     
    Which brings us back to the Muse. The Muse, remember, is the daughter of Zeus, Father of the Gods, and Memory, Mnemosyne. That’s a pretty impressive pedigree. I’ll accept those credentials.
     
    I’ll take Xenophon at his word; before I sit down to work, I’ll take a minute and show respect to this unseen Power who can make or break me.

 
     
    INVOKING THE MUSE,
    PART THREE
    ----
     
    Artists have invoked the Muse since time immemorial. There is great wisdom to this. There is magic to effacing our human arrogance and humbly entreating help from a source we cannot see, hear, touch, or smell. Here’s the start of Homer’s Odyssey , the T. E. Lawrence translation:
     
    O Divine Poesy, goddess, daughter of Zeus, sustain for me this song of the various-minded man who, after he had plundered the innermost citadel of hallowed Troy, was made to stray grievously about the coasts of men, the sport of their customs, good and bad, while his heart, through all the sea-faring, ached with an agony to redeem himself and bring his company safe home. Vain hope—for them. The fools! Their own witlessness cast them aside. To destroy for meat the oxen of the most exalted Sun, wherefore the Sun-god blotted out the day of their return. Make this tale live for us in all its many bearings, O Muse. . . .
     
    This passage will reward closer study.
     
    First, Divine Poesy. When we invoke the Muse we are calling on a force not just from a different plane of reality, but from a holier plane.
     
    Goddess, daughter of Zeus . Not only are we invoking divine intercession, but intercession on the highest level, just one remove from the top.
     
    Sustain for me . Homer doesn’t ask for brilliance or success. He just wants to keep this thing going.
     
    This song . That about covers it. From The Brothers Karamazov to your new venture in the plumbing-supply business.
     
    I love the summation of Odysseus’ trials that comprises the body of the invocation. It’s Joseph Campbell’s hero’s journey in a nutshell, as concise a synopsis of the story of Everyman as it gets. There’s the initial crime (which we all inevitably commit), which ejects the hero from his homebound complacency and propels him upon his wanderings, the yearning for redemption, the untiring campaign to get “home,” meaning back to God’s grace, back to himself.
     
    I admire particularly the warning against the second crime, to destroy for meat the oxen of the most exalted Sun . That’s the felony that calls down soul-destruction: the employment of the sacred for profane means. Prostitution. Selling out.
     
    Lastly, the artist’s wish for his work: Make this tale live for us in all its many bearings, O Muse.
     
    That’s what we want, isn’t it? More than make it great, make it live. And not from one angle only, but in all its many bearings.
     
    Okay.
     
    We’ve said our prayer. We’re ready to work. Now what?

 
    THE MAGIC OF MAKING A START
    ----
     
    Concerning all acts of initiative (and creation) there is one elementary truth, the ignorance of which kills countless ideas and splendid plans: that the moment one definitely commits oneself, then providence moves too. All sorts of things occur to help one that would not otherwise have occurred. A whole stream of events issues from the decision, raising in one’s favour all manner of unforeseen incidents and meetings and material assistance which no man would have dreamed would come his way. I have learned a deep respect for one of Goethe’s couplets: “Whatever you can do, or dream you