In
order to learn to organize his material, he has doubtlessly
unconsciously lessened its density and vibrancy for the time being.
And, too, it may be the result of a change from a pain-economy to a
pleasure-economy. The adolescent has grown into the young man. The
adjustment may have been made. The poet is no longer forced to mint his
miseries and pains alone into art; he is learning to be glad. He may
again be seeking to find himself in a world grown different.
At the same time, there is a distinct possibility that the present
period of Ornstein's composition is not a time of preparation for a new
flight. There is a distinct possibility that it represents an
unwholesome slackening. After all, may it not be that he has flinched?
Stronger men than he have succumbed to a hostile world. And Ornstein has
found the world very hostile. He has found America absolutely unprepared
for his art, possessed with no technique to cope with it. He has very
largely been operating in a void. It is not so much that he has been
tried and found wanting. He has not even been heard. Because the musical
world has been unable to follow him, it has dismissed him entirely from
its consciousness. Scarcely a critic has been able to express what it is
about his music that he likes or dislikes.
Pages:
256
257
258
259
260
261
262
263
264
265
266
267
268
269
270
271
272
273
274
275
276
277
278
279
280