The arid remoteness which is so repellant a feature of a good deal of aesthetic theorizing is doubtless to be attributed to the fact that many of the philosophers who expound the meaning of beauty have never had an aesthetic emotion. The notion that this deficiency can be remedied by any amount of dialectic skill is a childish blunder. On the other hand those who really do care for beauty are frequently quite content to enjoy their golden moments un-reflectively and feel no very urgent impulse to understand their experiences and to trace them to their origin. These considerations indicate the peculiar interest of Professor Robertson's "spiritual autobiography," this strange contemplative little book in which he writes of the pursuit and discovery of beauty throughout his life. For we have here the record of a man in whom the qualities of the scientist and the artist are curiously intermingled, one who is acutely sensitive to aesthetic impressions and in whom there stirs also the scientific impulse to comprehend and define what it is that moves him most profoundly.

In recent years the psychologists have been emphasizing the dynamic influence of the experiences of childhood on the whole of later development. Professor Robertson's major thesis is that the events of these early years are of deep significance for the aesthetic life. "It is these critical early years, hidden from the world and except in rare instances from ourselves, which largely determine the character of a man, which provide the artist unaware with his richest material. Thus beauty is fashioned and has its being." This idea is crystallized symbolically in the brief "prelude" with which the book begins:—

"I went back to the home of my childhood but found that a factory was built in its place. I went down to the edge of the sea to rest beneath a tree where I sat as a child. The tree was cut down to make way for a new motor road.

I looked out over the water to know if the hills were still golden in the light of the setting sun. From the sands below I heard the voices of the playing children: 'The prince searched for the princess everywhere.'

I went away, knowing the home of my childhood was not destroyed, and the tree, the beautiful ngaio tree, its sap was in my veins."

The story opens with the author's childhood in Auckland, then it shifts to Wellington and from thence to Oxford, to Europe, to Burma, but through it all, and in strange contrast to the kaleidoscopic change of scene, the dominating motives of childhood assert and reassert themselves. There are the stars, the earliest of all memories, which, when they are brighter than their wont, always produce the 'same lovely excitement, which is no mere stir of the senses in contact with the casual treasons of a right . . . but a fierce and well-nigh intolerable ecstacy; there is an almond tree; a harbour of dreams; the presence of a love that may not find fulfilment; the "ironic fate that makes a man a wanderer against his will." In some instances these "early patterns" remained long buried in the dim regions of the unconscious and were brought to conscious awareness only by painstaking self-analysis or by a fortuitous accident. But, whether conscious or unconscious, each pattern repeats itself in modified forms just as in a fugue there are numerous repetitions of the same motif at different levels of the musical gamut.

Subtly woven into the texture of the book there is an account of the literary influences which have contributed to the author's development. Foremost among these is Walter Pater. It was at Oxford that Professor Robertson discovered Pater and surely there are few more vivid evocations of the excitement of a literary discovery than his description of the event. "The chimes of the passing hours eddied through my thoughts and the still autumn night as I read on in wonder, finding my aspirations, so comprehensively expressed my sensations and ideas transmuted into the most inconceivably beautiful sentences. It was as if I had awakened after a long sleep page 16 to meet a new day in some incomprehensible manner different from all the days that preceded it: never had I imagined that my own language, the words that I used so thoughtlessly and heartlessly, could be fashioned into an instrument from which such compassionate notes might be struck." Fittingly enough a whole chapter, "Dreaming Spires," is devoted to a luminous appreciation of Pater's writings. And in summing up his indebtedness to him, Professor Robertson writes: "Too long pre-occupied in my thoughts with what was merely intellectual, as if logic were an end in itself and love but the shadow of a tree cast on a wall, I came now to realize the importance of the heart and the senses, in their just equipoise with the mind."

Of other contributory influences the most important are Croce, Romain Rolland, Freud and Proust. For a time Professor Robertson was powerfully impressed by the superb logical symmetry of Croce's philosophy and especially by his theory of aesthetic. But later he came to see that "art was too complex a function of human life, in its infinite variety of anguish and loveliness, to be thus explained away, "and in retrospect he now looks back upon the philosophy of Croce" with the respect that may still be held for an idol that has fallen by the wayside." A high tribute is paid to Rolland's epic novel "Jean-Christophe," a book which served to give reality to a growing conviction of the organic unity of life and beauty and which, in emphasizing the importance of the early years of an artist on his subsequent development, implied views congruent with his own. The influence of Freud and of Proust is more recent. Freud's theories, in particular his insistence on the primacy of emotion in life, his formulation of the mechanisms of the unconscious and his doctrine of the fundamental polarity of the Life Instincts and the Death Instincts, are invoked as providing valuable psychological support for his own position. Finally there is Proust who could not but be significant since his "A la recherche du temps perdu" is not only, like "Life and Beauty," an attempt to penetrate to the inner meaning of things through a search for times past, but also a meticulously conscientious record of the life of an intellectual artist.

Professor Robertson's prose style awakens echoes, sometimes of Pater and sometimes of Hergesheimer, but it possesses unmistakable individuality of its own. It is rich and colourful yet simple and direct, with an entire absence of preciousness; and its subtle, pulsing rhythm has an "edge" on it which prevents it from ever becoming monotonous. There are passages—one thinks especially of the description of an imaginary voyage in the Pacific in the last chapter—which reach lyric heights which it would be difficult to parallel in the prose of this country. One can only say in conclusion that "Life and Beauty" is a notable and distinguished contribution to New Zealand literature.

A.E.C.

The Phoenix—Published at the University versity Press, Auckland, for the Literary Club of the University.

I hesitate to say all that might be said about this newest venture in University publications. Its promoters and its committee (if indeed such separation is permissible) are much to be congratulated upon their obviously sincere effort to produce a "literary" magazine. Though the first number aroused in me the feelings which usually follow on reading the worst of futurist free verse, I must acknowledge that the second did something to remove them. Something, however; not by any means all. The magazine falls so far short of its ex-pressed intentions that one may be permitted to apply to the backs of those responsible the rod which they so unhesitatingly apply to others. As these Adelphians are obviously not new to journalism I cannot justly be accused of "dusting the bloom off the peach."

"A paper should have both a background and a policy"—I quote from the foreword to the first number. Admittedly this is a sound statement. It may, however, be doubted whether it should also adopt a manner. The Phoenix has unfortunately done this. The conscious superiority of its tone rather destroys the equally conscious semi-humility of expression. Especially when I read Mr. Bertram's criticism of the other University papers does the phrase suggest itself "physician, heal thyself." This precious critic has forgotten that in page 17 each University there are writers who should be given encouragement, even though their work cannot be ranked with the polished though slightly turgid productions of Mr. Middleton Murry. Auckland and The Phoenix may content itself to rely on the old hands, but with all due respect I suggest that it should be the aim of any intelligent committee, with an eye on the future, to help the younger writers in the College. It can do this best by publishing some of their work. It is in my opinion the fault of the superior person who sneers, covertly or otherwise, at "immature" efforts of young students and passes them completely by, that so little of value ultimately comes from the University magazines. I hope that Mr. Bertram and his associates will cease erecting walls of doubtful pseudo-culture, and putting stumbling blocks in the way of those less facile than themselves. Even they are not infallible, and perhaps were once quite young. Somewhat like St. Simeon Stylites, they perch themselves on a pedestal of asceticism and bow repeatedly before the gods of higher criticism. Let me recommend them to get down from the heights and tread the valleys for a while. Those who keep their eyes eternally on the stars so often slip. I should not like to see a promising publication perish of cold on those heights, and would advise the whole committee to read "Jocosa Lyra" and endeavour to understand.

Which brings me to the verse published by The Phoenix. That in the first number, with the possible exception of Mr. Mason's experiment, is very bad indeed. "Two translations" are both so terrible that one wonders why they were considered. Apart from the lack of feeling or meaning in the lines, there is no word-music. Someone has in this issue of "Spike" been "vulgar" enough to show how easy this sort of thing is. I am surprised that the committee allowed themselves to be imposed on. "Cold Music" left me quite cold, and after "Cape Wanbrow" I wondered why either of these pieces of Mr. Brasch's had been written. After all, even a poet it supposed to have something to say. That is also why I am tempted to wish that Mr. Curnow's "Calm" had been also silent.

In the second number there is a slight improvement with 'The Swan," which is quite up to University standard of contemplation without result. On the other hand, if "The Spirit Shall Return" again in this manner, I for one will be sorry. Mr. Curnow has a sense of words, but no words of sense. The artificiality of inverting Biblical phrases is too self-evident to pass as an experiment. We want fewer of these "strivings" and more simplicity; it is not necessary to distort in order to demonstrate.

Unlike most University magazines (from which in its wisdom, I understand, The Phoenix wishes to consider itself removed), the prose is superior to the verse. But here again, I lament the absence of simplicity of style. If a word of five letters can be replaced by a word of sixteen having exactly the same meaning there is only one rule: do not replace it. Also, it is no bad thing for the reader to be able to follow the thought of the writer easily from his words. The aim of all literature should be to express as simply and easily as possible the idea which lies behind the printed words. Where you have to search for the writer's idea amid a jumble of words, technical or foreign phrases, inverted expressions, and involved sentences, it is not literature you are reading. It may be something quite admirable and worthy of any writer of text-books, but definitely nothing more. And if I mistake not, it is that something more that The Phoenix is endeavouring to publish.

Mr. Lowry's article on literature and philosophy is a case in point. It is excessively prolix and its conclusion (despite the headnote) quite comprehensible and not quite satisfactory. The author has yet to learn two things : first, that you cannot put literary products into tins and label them, and secondly, that the dictum of Sir Arthur Quiller Couch that you cannot be wise about literature in a category to which it does not belong, is axiomatic. That is, you cannot be wise about literature in terms of philosophy. But all the argument could have been put in two pages, and in a magazine with the ideals of The Phoenix it is very distressing to have to wade through the mudflats to get a glimpse of the far ocean, only to find after all that a fog has risen.

Then again, Russia challenges to the tune of seven pages. I suppose that it expresses the international desire, but I wish it could have been expressed at less length. Why, page 18 oh why, can we not have some terseness in place of this treacly flow of words? This is not the way to establish a New Zealand tradition. A young nation should at all costs learn to express itself vigorously.

The second number also shows improvement in the prose, though the stories are rather affected in tone and sombre in thought. The influence of the younger American school, which seems to be developing a turn of this kind, is too noticeable. Can our story-tellers not get away from introspective studies and give us some meat? We incline to the merely pretty; striving too much for polish when there is no substance, and too little for the human touch. Now a yarn about those much-discussed bargees might have possibilities— perhaps we shall see it next time.

I am rather in agreement with Mr. Cook in his criticism—the great New Zealand novel is not yet written. (Perhaps it will come from a southern pen grown tired of poetry). We do need more of energy and less of the arm-chair in our literary matter. This is where The Phoenix lacks the necessary vitality to lift it above the purely contemplative. Let it seek for something virile to publish, and let polish alone for a while. There is far too much of what Conrad deftly called "the vulgar refinement of modern thought" in its pages.

The sponsors of the paper have nothing to be ashamed of, even if they have much to correct, but as they are out to set standards they should not complain if their standards are attacked. It is with that thought in mind that I have been outspoken. I have too much respect for the enterprise to think that these doughty souls wish to be patted on the head. Let them, however, show that they are indeed doughty. I do not wish to see this paper slide gracefully into oblivion as yet another attempt at a New Zealand "literary" magazine. With a little heed to current affairs, a more catholic taste, and, above all, no touch of the superior attitude, it should attain virility.

But there is one thing more. 'The best test of the permanence of a man's writings has always seemed to me to be the answer to the question whether it comes from his heart," says Stephen Coleridge, and this is a dictum which our University writers particularly would do well to hang above their desks. There is a tendence to substitute fireworks for fire, intellectual gymnastics for thought, and a nebulous cultural attitude for definite purpose and meaning. Let us have less form and more substance. It is the lack of substance in the literary outlook of The Phoenix (and not the idea at the back of the undertaking) that I deplore.

I note that the idea is protean. Well, as a "primordial protoplasmic atomic globule" of the literary variety The Phoenix has made some sort of a start, and though it is yet but a globule it may one day develop wings, put upon itself feathers, and fly regally. I, for one, hope in all sincerity that it will.

"It Still Goes On," a pamphlet by one "Jack Nag," and published for the Labour Defence League .

A refreshing little effort this, which shows that the days of the pamphlet are not yet numbered. Jack has a bright style which attracts; he never proses, and if some of his arguments are somewhat specious, they are at least attractively put. A few of these endeavours will do no harm to the community. I particularly liked his "tapping" story. There are few enough jokes in these times, and this one was good enough to have been taken in the spirit in which it was meant. But he is wrong if he thinks that suppression of freedom of thought and speech is confined to special places or arbitrarily enforced on one section of the community. His own examples show that it is not. Though I cannot subscribe to his political views I must heartily endorse his championship of the right of freedom of expression. It is a right worth fighting for. and has found a trusty champion in this courageous pamphleteer.

—H. R. Bannister.

The prize offered by "Spike" for the best original poem was awarded to I.M.L. for the poem "The Idealist."