My goal is to read a novel a week in 2015. I’ve made it to 17.
-Aldous Huxley, Crome Yellow
The title initially puzzled me. The name of the town/estate in which the story takes place is Crome; that’s easy. But after going back and reading the introduction, I learned:
The term ‘crome yellow’ describes a yellow pigment that has an initial brightness that tends to fade when exposed to sunlight and turns brown or green over time. Hence, the title’s symbolism refers to the novel’s characters who at first appear flashy, but will soon turn dark or fade away. As Peter Bowering has said of the novel, the “yellow” of Crome is more than a little jaundiced (p. ix).
Judging by the (modern) reviews of this book I’ve seen online, a lot of modern folks don’t seem to care as much for it as you would expect with what is considered a ‘classic’ (written in the 1920s). As for myself, I really enjoyed the book. I think some of the writing is quite beautiful; I also think that some of the characters developed in the story are intriguing caricatures of the types of folks Huxley was likely dealing with in his day, especially in the artsy-fartsy circles he ran in. And I think there is a good bit of wisdom to be gleaned from the narrative.
First off, Mr. Barbecue-Smith, the most famous of the ‘artists’ in the story, is almost a dead ringer for G.K. Chesterton. He’s a heavyset guy with no neck that waxes poetically about everything, has an opinion on everything, writes prodigiously, and majors on mystical experience. I don’t think Chesterton was really anything close to a mystic, but he was certainly accused of it at times by his opponents. From my online searches I couldn’t find anyone who has made a connection between Barbecue and Chesterton, but I can’t help but be suspicious (maybe the idea of Chesterton and Barbecue just go hand in hand). I do know Chesterton wasn’t fond of Huxley’s pessimistic vision of the world, and wasn’t afraid to say so (let’s just admit that Huxley was a quack, but a great writer nonetheless; and I actually sympathize with his pessimism in some ways). Here’s one example of the ruminations of Barbecue; apparently he was portly enough that he didn’t have much of a neck:
In his earlier middle age he had been distressed by this absence of neck, but was comforted by reading in Balzac’s Louis Lambert that all the world’s great men have been marked by the same peculiarity, and for a simple and obvious reason: Greatness is nothing more nor less than the harmonious functioning of the faculties of the head and heart; the shorter the neck, the more closely these two organs approach one another… (p. 28).
Next, I mentioned beautiful writing. One of the early portions of the book is one of the most eloquent pieces of prose I’ve ever read. The main character, Denis, a young poet, tries to describe some hilly scenery:
Curves, curves: he repeated the word slowly, trying as he did so to find some term in which to give expression to his appreciation. Curves – no, that was inadequate. He made a gesture with his hand, as though to scoop the achieved expression out of the air, and almost fell off his bicycle. What was the word to describe the curves of those little valleys? They were as fine as the lines of a human body, they were informed with the subtlety of art…
…But he really must find the word. Curves curves… Those little valleys had the lines of a cup moulded round a woman’s breast; they seemed the dinted imprints of some huge divine body that had rested on these hills…He was enamoured with the beauty of words (pp. 4-5).
There are also some deep thoughts tucked away in the narrative, such as,
Parallel straight lines, Denis reflected, meet only at infinity. He might talk forever of care-chamber sleep and she of meteorology till the end of time. Did one ever establish contact with anyone? We are all parallel straight lines (p. 18).
and
Mr. Barbecue-Smith stood with his back to the hearth, warming himself at the memory of last winter’s fires (p. 30).
Both of those lines will probably get individual posts from me in the near future.
I also love the description of one fictional writer:
‘I say,’ said Gombauld, ‘Knockespotch was a little obscure sometimes, wasn’t he?’
‘He was,’ Mr Scogan replied, ‘and with intention. It made him seem even profounder than he actually was’ (p. 83).
I relate to that because it seems that many of our postmodern authors seem to think that obscurity is the mark of genuine art. I am rather old school in the sense that I still think you should write in order to be understood.
Moving on, one of the more interesting twists in the narrative involves a book of sketches drawn by a deaf woman who is living among this colony of artists. Denis has always pictured her as absent-minded and withdrawn. After looking at her private book of sketches (unbeknownst to her), he realizes that she, as evidenced by her drawings, has pegged him to a tee. She manages to reveal his character perfectly with one sketch. This leads him to the before unrealized conclusion that other people in the world were able to see through him in the same way that he believes he is able to see through him:
[Her drawings] represented all the vast conscious world of men outside himself; they symbolised something that in his studious solitariness he was apt not to believe in. He could stand at Piccadillly Circus, could watch the crowds shuffle past, and still imagine himself the one fully conscious, intelligent, individual being among all the thousands. It seemed, somehow, impossible that other people should be in their way as elaborate and complete as he in his. Impossible; and yet, periodically he would make some painful discovery about the external world and the horrible reality of its consciousness and its intelligence (p. 141).
I relate to that point.
Denis also expresses another sentiment that I often share. Quotes repeatedly pop into his mind:
Oh, these rags and tags of other people’s making! Would he ever be able to call his brain his own? Was there, indeed, anything in it that was truly his own, or was it simply an education? (p. 142).
I wonder if all my reading has killed any hope at originality. But, then again, is originality really possible, or even desirable? C.S. Lewis would say no.
We also get a preview of Brave New World in the character of Mr. Wimbush. I plan on rereading Brave New World in the next few weeks and sharing some thoughts. Needless to say, I enjoyed Crome Yellow and found it to be well worth the time. I’ll share some more on it in the near future, Lord willing.
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