A Final Contemplation of the Divine

“All the arts aspire to the condition of music” –Walter Pater

Since the day I heard this insight from renowned “Renaissance” man Walter Pater recited in class, I have quoted and tried to spark discussion from it with various random people in my life that I thought would “get it”. The truth conveyed in those words has been haunting me since. Here is an idea I have cultivated in my head for as long as I have felt sincere passion for music, yet was never able to express perfectly in words. It seems that while our words constantly fall short, music is somehow able to rise above them, fulfilling us without fail. Contemplating Pater’s assertion in light of all the insight I have gained this semester in American Lit 2 allowed me to formulate some notions as to why this is.
The role of a barista is very similar to that of a bartender. In both roles, the waiter provides a habit-forming beverage, a smile, and sometimes even conversation or company (depending on the condition of the customer). Whether it is alcohol or caffeine, when people get to drinkin’, they get to talkin’. This is the role I fill most weekday mornings; and in my position behind the coffee-counter I am subject to the rants and raves of edgy people eager to ingest caffeine before they can come to grips with their day. About a month ago, a regular customer with whom I am well acquainted was relating to me the woes of his major (which is concentrated in some astro- physo- science something) while in the crux of a churning out some major thesis. In an effort to include me, he expressed with a sigh “Sometimes I really wish I was an English major”. Wait a second: now, I was totally with him on the first part about rocket science being abhorrent and stressful, but what does this have to do with my major? An explanation was in order! “What do you mean?” I blinked. “Well, it would just be so much easier to rely on creativity alone”. Hmmm. I let him go, as another mug-clutching man sauntered into line behind him, but his comment remained with me hours and days after. I knew I was offended, but why? Was there just cause for offense here? While it is true that my major is centered on the creative psyche, why would he assume that because of that, my tasks were inherently “easy” (or at least easier than his)? In the back, doing some dishes, I defended myself aloud to no one: “If only he knew how hard it can be to find the right words!”
Characteristically, I don’t take any sort of conversation lightly. My major is concentrated in language because self-expression is of the utmost importance to me; and when I’m saying something significant, I want to be able to relate it to others the best way possible. This proves to be, time and time again, a very frustrating task! What with so many words to choose from, and the pressure of forming a sentence quickly under the other party’s expectant gaze, my efforts constantly fall short. I love words and language fixedly and fervently, but in terms of self-expression they leave us so…limited.
In these bouts of frustration with finding “the right words”, I have oftentimes found myself yearning for some infallible method of translating thoughts and ideas into feelings. If we could just experience the feelings that we’re trying to talk about, then what need would there be for words? I have yearned for some absolute language, some flawless form of expression. One of the things that I learned in American Lit 2 this semester is that one does, in fact, exist. It is a celestial language that “all the arts aspire to”. It is music.
English 219 has been, as described in the course title, a “Survey of American Literature”; literature that has evoked epiphanies, emotions, and meaningful discussions from every member of the class who read the material (and has a pulse). What was it, precisely, that evoked these reactions? A wiki search for the definition of literature yielded this:

Literature is literally "acquaintance with letters" as in the first sense given in the Oxford English Dictionary (from the Latin littera meaning "an individual written character (letter)"). The term has generally come to identify a collection of texts or work of art, which in Western culture are mainly prose, both fiction and non-fiction, drama and poetry. In much, if not all of the world, texts can be oral as well, and include such genres as epic, legend, myth, ballad, other forms of oral poetry, and the folktale.

This definition encompasses a wide variety of mediums for expression, yet music is not listed therein. Why is it being set apart? All of these works of art seek to present an idea or feeling by describing it to a reader or audience. And while every artist takes individual, creative liberties with his descriptions so as to enchant an audience and stimulate their senses, there is an element of analysis that is not present in the realm of music, and so our minds our alleviated and refreshed by it’s inherent empathy. What literature is describing, music just is.
Now, it is true that literature cannot be music due to the fundamental qualities of each genre, and thus can only aspire to become like it. However, I discovered in this class that words and stories can present themselves in a way that resembles something deceitfully close to music. For instance, the novel “Lolita”, by Vladimir Nabokobv, read like a song to me. The melodic and mesmerizing prose of this book made me melt as only music (and a few other song-like phrases) had prior to my reading of it.
In a very brilliant passage from Wallace Stevens’ “Notes Toward a Supreme Fiction”, it is observed that “Music falls on silence like a sense, a passion that we feel, not understand” (Stevens 172). Our passions, sensations, and our emotions make a music of their own that cannot be understood in a language other that simply feeling. A good example is cited in Stevens’ “Peter Quince at the Clavier”. Stevens grasped the divinity of music, and had a gift for making it himself, as in this passage:

“Just as my fingers on these keys
Make music, so the selfsame sounds
On my spirit make a music, too.

Music is feeling, then, not sound:
And thus it is that what I feel,
Here in this room, desiring you,
Thinking of your blue-shadowed silk,
Is music…” (Stevens 46)
(Wow!)
Reading “Lolita” was, for me, akin to reading this excerpt of “Peter Quince at the Clavier”. My reading of “Lolita” was the very idea that this excerpt of the poem is asserting. From the very first sentences of the novel: “Lolita, light of my life, fire of my loins. My sin, my soul. Lo-lee-ta” (Nabokov 1). The rhythm, the melody, the passion of these words: this is music! Humbert Humbert, in his cell, desiring his Lolita, thinking of her in her own “blue-shadowed silk”: Music. Nabokov created song out of prose. Music is feeling, and reading (or “singing”) “Lolita” inflicted an array of feelings on me.
One of the very first things I wrote down from Sexson’s lectures was this quote: “The best things in life are 1) Contemplation of the divine and 2) A well-constructed sentence”. Perhaps these two ideas are so ranked because they appeal to the aesthete in all of us, to the “one who perceives”. Music is divine. A well-constructed sentence is invigorating. And the two are fused in “Lolita”, and in all great literature. This class has truly altered my whole perspective on life. What is a work of literature but a personal perception of life and truth? These perceptions, as depicted in literature and music, free the spirit and leave me loving life. For in contemplating these arts, I never cease to be awestruck by life’s overwhelming capacity for divinity.

“For art comes to you proposing frankly to give nothing but the highest quality to your moments as they pass, and simply for those moment’s sake” –Walter Pater