"I would rather fail at some things I wot of than succeed at others,"
said Lanier. There are moods when the imperfection of Lanier
pleases more than the perfection of Poe -- even from the artistic standpoint.
What he aspired to be enters into one's whole thought
about his life and his art. The vista of his grave opens up
into the unseen world.
On earth the broken arcs; in the heaven a perfect round.
But the time comes when none of these considerations --
neither admiration for the man, nor speculations as to what he might have done
under different circumstances, nor thoughts as to what he may be doing
in larger, other worlds than ours -- should interfere
with a judicial estimate of what he really achieved. It would have been
the miracle of history if with all his obstacles he had not had limitations
as a writer; and yet many who have insisted most on his sufferings,
have resented any criticism passed upon his work. One has the authority
of Lanier's writings about other men and his letters about his own poems
for judging him only by the highest standards. Did he in aiming at a million
miss a unit? Was he blinded by the very excess of light? How will he fare
in that race with time of which a contemporary essayist has written?
"When the admiration of his friends no longer counts,
when his friends and admirers are themselves gathered
to the same silent throng," will there be enough inherent worth in his work
to keep his fame alive? These are questions that one has a right to ask.
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