Toward Ecosophy

Today's my birthday, as it happens, and one of the presents I got was especially welcome -- a copy of Prose Chants and Proems, the second voume of poetry published by Ross Nichols, the Druid on the left. (Yes, that last word is "proems" with an R, not "poems" -- literary types between the wars used that label for things that were halfway between poetry and prose.)  At this point I have three of the four volumes of poetry he published during his life -- the first, Sassenach Stray, a poetic journal of his travels in northwestern Scotland, is a very rare book indeed and I don't expect ever to find a copy. 

I'm not generally much of a collector, but I've made an exception for Nichols' poetry. Partly that's because my introduction to Druidry came by way of the order he founded, the Order of Bards Ovates and Druids, so in a very real sense Nichols is one of my spiritual ancestors; his vision of Druidry has probably done more to shape mine than any other single influence. Partly it's because I genuinely like his poetry; my taste in verse was very heavily shaped by TS Eliot, WB Yeats, Robinson Jeffers, and others of their generation, and Nichols learned a great deal from the first two at least. 

But there's also the fact that his poetry is one of the many aspects of 20th century literary culture that have been all but forgotten these days, and deserve a better fate. There's really quite a lot that falls into that category. The novel I finished reading last night, Thomas Mann's Royal Highness, is another example. These days if anybody remembers Mann at all, it's usually for The Magic Mountain or Death in Venice, or just possibly Buddenbrooks -- good solid stories all. Royal Highness is a much lighter piece. It's a fine satiric comedy about the royal house of a third-rate German principality around the beginning of the 20th century; it's got a romantic element, and a happy ending; and it's a hilarious read, though since it's Mann, it's also got no shortage of sad and poignant moments. 

On a different plane, but still worth remembering, are three children's novels I prized in my early years: The Cloud Forest, The Light Maze, and The Whirling Shapes, all by the British children's writer Joan North. She belonged to that once-common class of children's authors -- L. Frank Baum, the author of The Wizard of Oz, was another -- who put a good deal of authentic spirituality into her novels, and all three tales stand up surprisingly well to an adult's eyes. As far as I know they've been out of print for decades, though as far as I know they're still in copyright. Maybe someone can find the heirs and see if they'd be interested in a new edition. 

Generally, as the 20th century fades into historical memory, it's high time for those who are interested to start combing through the vast amount of literature that came out during that hundred-year interval. Many of the most ballyhooed books of the era deserve the oblivion that's already closing around them -- Portnoy's Complaint comes to mind! -- but there are plenty of treasures worth saving and reviving.