I've come to give you fruit from out of my garden ...
I.
It's interesting to compare the pleasure that Bertrand Russell took from eating a piece of fruit with that experienced by D. H. Lawrence ...
In an essay first published in 1935, the former writes:
"I have enjoyed peaches and apricots more since I have known that they were first cultivated in China in the early days of Han Dynasty; that Chinese hostages held by the great King Kaniska introduced them to India, whence they spread to Persia, reaching the Roman Empire in the first century of our era; that the word 'apricot' is derived from the same Latin source as the word 'precocious', because the apricot ripens early; and that the A at the beginning was added by mistake, owing to a false etymology. All this makes the fruit taste much sweeter." [1]
It's interesting to compare the pleasure that Bertrand Russell took from eating a piece of fruit with that experienced by D. H. Lawrence ...
In an essay first published in 1935, the former writes:
"I have enjoyed peaches and apricots more since I have known that they were first cultivated in China in the early days of Han Dynasty; that Chinese hostages held by the great King Kaniska introduced them to India, whence they spread to Persia, reaching the Roman Empire in the first century of our era; that the word 'apricot' is derived from the same Latin source as the word 'precocious', because the apricot ripens early; and that the A at the beginning was added by mistake, owing to a false etymology. All this makes the fruit taste much sweeter." [1]
It's pretty clear what Russell is attempting to demonstrate here; namely, how knowledge shapes and intensifies our sensory experience of the world, enhancing our pleasure and, as in this case, literally making life taste sweeter.
But Lawrence, who, at one time, imagined that he and Russell might team up and put the world to rights, would doubtless reject this and accuse Russell of bartering away the physical delight of eating an actual piece of fruit in exchange for mental satisfaction.
Compare and contrast Russell's overripe intellectualism with Lawrence's more elemental joy in eating an apple expressed in one of his last poems:
So an apple becomes mystic when I taste in it
the summer and the snows, the wild welter of earth
and the insistence of the sun.
All of which things I can surely taste in a good apple.
Though some apples taste preponderantly of water, wet and sour
and some of too much sun, brackish sweet
like lagoon-water, that has been too much sunned.
If I say I taste these things in an apple, I am called mystic, which means a liar.
The only way to eat an apple is to hog it down like a pig
and taste nothing
that is real.
But if I eat an apple, I like to eat it with all my senses awake.
Hogging it down like a pig I call the feeding of corpses." [2]
II.
Now, to be fair, no one could accuse Russell of simply hogging down his fruit. But he too doesn't seem to eat his peaches and apricots with all his physical senses awake, even if his big brain is still mechanically whirring like clockwork.
It's as if Russell has a secret horror for the soft flesh of the fruit and so seeks an escape route into historico-linguistic abstraction, transfusing the juicy body of the apricot with facts and false etymologies. It's what Lawrence terms cerebral conceit - the tyranny of the mind and the arrogance of the spirit triumphing over the instinctive-intuitive consciousness.
Having said that - and despite his obvious irritation at the charge - it could be that Lawrence is being just a wee bit mystical when he says he can taste in his apple the elements and seasons and wild chaos of creation, etc.
But of course, Lawrence is not the only poet to insist on this. One might recall, for example, Louise Bogan's verse 'The Crossed Apple', which was published in the same year as Lawence wrote his poem (1929) and which contains the following lines:
"Eat it, and you will taste more than the fruit: / The blossom, too, / The sun, the air, the darkness at the root, / The rain, the dew ..." [3]
I suppose we might conclude that whilst philosophers love to parade their learning, poets have to make a big deal about their sensitivity and insist that they can feel more than the rest of us.
(A friend, who happens to be a chemist, would say that what you can actually taste in an apple is a combination of sugars, acids, and tannins; that these things determine the flavour in terms of sweetness, sourness and bitterness. But then he might also insist that water is H2O and that's not quite the whole truth, is it?)
(A friend, who happens to be a chemist, would say that what you can actually taste in an apple is a combination of sugars, acids, and tannins; that these things determine the flavour in terms of sweetness, sourness and bitterness. But then he might also insist that water is H2O and that's not quite the whole truth, is it?)
Notes
[1] Bertrand Russell, '"Useless" Knowledge', In Praise of Idleness and Other Essays, (George Allen and Unwin Ltd.,1935).
[2] D. H. Lawrence, 'Mystic', The Poems, Vol. I., ed. Christopher Pollnitz, (Cambridge University Press, 2013).
[3] Louise Bogan, 'The Crossed Apple', Dark Summer, (Scribner's, 1929).
Thanks to Simon Solomon for suggesting the poem by Louise Bogan.
[2] D. H. Lawrence, 'Mystic', The Poems, Vol. I., ed. Christopher Pollnitz, (Cambridge University Press, 2013).
[3] Louise Bogan, 'The Crossed Apple', Dark Summer, (Scribner's, 1929).
Thanks to Simon Solomon for suggesting the poem by Louise Bogan.
