1. See C. Watkins in The American Heritage Dictionary of The English Language , ed. W. Morris (Boston, New York, 1969, 1970), p. 1509. The Indo-European word is bheu . In this context, I should like to add that I am using the word "building" as the category of which "architecture" is the realized art or the idol. Recently come to my attention is an argument by Heidegger in an essay coincidentally titled "Building Dwelling Thinking" in Poetry, Language, Thought , trans. A Hofstadter (New York, 1971). Heidegger isolates and addresses just these terms and concepts. He glosses building this way: "The Old English and High German word for building, buan , means to dwell. . . . bauen, buan, bhu, beo , are our word bin in the versions: ich bin , I am, du bist , you are, the imperative form bis , be. What then does ich bin mean? The old word bauen , to which the bin belongs, answers: ich bin, du bist mean: I dwell, you dwell. The way in which you are and I am, the manner in which we humans are on the earth, is Buan , dwelling" (pp. 146-147). Building as dwelling means ''as being on the earth." Later, in the same essay, Heidegger states: "But that thinking itself belongs to dwelling in the same sense as building, although in a different way, may perhaps be attested to by the course of thought here attempted. Building and thinking are, each in its own way, inescapable for dwelling" (pp. 160-161). See, for another contrast to Heidegger, my discussion of dwelling , pp. 12, 262.

2. I might also have said "structure as consciousness, perception as conventions, belief as systems." The power of movement, perhaps the movement itself, may dissolve place distinctions, outer and inner. For the moment of noticing the continue

movement, then, our sense of boundaries disappears. The noticing of correspondence is like a noticing of mirrors: it is actually the activity of re-cognition and itself depends on mirroring, that is, on re-flection. Here, once again, we experience, as our activity of perception, the object of our perception: reflection of this sort is actually a mirroring of mirrors.

The words I use throughout the Introduction are chosen with special attention to their prefixes: I use re-, di-, to denote spatial conditions or quantities in space. Such prefixes function as the place organizers of these words, while the roots or verbs as I am using them function as the time co-ordinates: "recognize," like "reflection," for instance, requires the space of "again in time,'' a space-time lapse or interval having to have occurred.

3. Walter Pater, "Emerald Uthwart," in Imaginary Portraits , ed. E. J. Brzenk (London, 1964), p. 57; and Gerard Manley Hopkins, "Spelt from Sibyl's Leaves," in The Poems of Gerard Manley Hopkins , ed. W. H. Gardner and N. H. MacKenzie, 4th ed. (London, 1967), p. 97.

4. Watkins, in American Heritage Dictionary , p. 1513. The Indo-European root word for dwell is dheu .

5. We might say this yet another way, using a word with less apparent ontological significance but more suggestive of art-as-craft or techne: bringing is like making , so we have "the making of being," and "the making of being seeable."

1. "F," "In Pater's Rooms," The Speaker , 26 August 1899, p. 208.

2. Ibid., p. 207.

3. Ibid.

1. "F," "In Pater's Rooms," The Speaker , 26 August 1899, p. 208.

2. Ibid., p. 207.

3. Ibid.

1. "F," "In Pater's Rooms," The Speaker , 26 August 1899, p. 208.

2. Ibid., p. 207.

3. Ibid.

4. Walter Pater, "Style," in Prose of the Victorian Period , ed. W. E. Buckler (Cambridge, Massachusetts, 1958), p. 566. "Style" first appeared in Fortnightly Review (December 1888) continue

and subsequently in Appreciations; With an Essay on Style (London and New York, 1897).

5. Ibid., p. 570.

6. Ibid., p. 560.

7. Ibid., p. 563.

8. Ibid., p. 561.

9. Ibid., p. 562.

10. Ibid. The comparison or parallel between architecture and the human body finds its architectural origins in the writings of Vitruvius, The Ten Books on Architecture (trans. M. H. Morgan, New York, 1960) written for the Imperator Caesar. That the comparison persists well into the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries may be seen by consulting such journals as The Builder's Magazine or The Civil Engineer and Architect's Journal : among other terms in these journals, we find eye, eye-brow, face, elbow, dentells, nose, buttocks , and bust , let alone those more polite terms such as joint used by Pater. See The Builder's Magazine (London, 1774) and The Civil Engineer and Architect's Journal II (London, 1839), p. 365. Also see my discussion in Chapter V, section one, pp. 229-233.

4. Walter Pater, "Style," in Prose of the Victorian Period , ed. W. E. Buckler (Cambridge, Massachusetts, 1958), p. 566. "Style" first appeared in Fortnightly Review (December 1888) continue

and subsequently in Appreciations; With an Essay on Style (London and New York, 1897).

5. Ibid., p. 570.

6. Ibid., p. 560.

7. Ibid., p. 563.

8. Ibid., p. 561.

9. Ibid., p. 562.

10. Ibid. The comparison or parallel between architecture and the human body finds its architectural origins in the writings of Vitruvius, The Ten Books on Architecture (trans. M. H. Morgan, New York, 1960) written for the Imperator Caesar. That the comparison persists well into the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries may be seen by consulting such journals as The Builder's Magazine or The Civil Engineer and Architect's Journal : among other terms in these journals, we find eye, eye-brow, face, elbow, dentells, nose, buttocks , and bust , let alone those more polite terms such as joint used by Pater. See The Builder's Magazine (London, 1774) and The Civil Engineer and Architect's Journal II (London, 1839), p. 365. Also see my discussion in Chapter V, section one, pp. 229-233.

4. Walter Pater, "Style," in Prose of the Victorian Period , ed. W. E. Buckler (Cambridge, Massachusetts, 1958), p. 566. "Style" first appeared in Fortnightly Review (December 1888) continue

and subsequently in Appreciations; With an Essay on Style (London and New York, 1897).

5. Ibid., p. 570.

6. Ibid., p. 560.

7. Ibid., p. 563.

8. Ibid., p. 561.

9. Ibid., p. 562.

10. Ibid. The comparison or parallel between architecture and the human body finds its architectural origins in the writings of Vitruvius, The Ten Books on Architecture (trans. M. H. Morgan, New York, 1960) written for the Imperator Caesar. That the comparison persists well into the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries may be seen by consulting such journals as The Builder's Magazine or The Civil Engineer and Architect's Journal : among other terms in these journals, we find eye, eye-brow, face, elbow, dentells, nose, buttocks , and bust , let alone those more polite terms such as joint used by Pater. See The Builder's Magazine (London, 1774) and The Civil Engineer and Architect's Journal II (London, 1839), p. 365. Also see my discussion in Chapter V, section one, pp. 229-233.

4. Walter Pater, "Style," in Prose of the Victorian Period , ed. W. E. Buckler (Cambridge, Massachusetts, 1958), p. 566. "Style" first appeared in Fortnightly Review (December 1888) continue

and subsequently in Appreciations; With an Essay on Style (London and New York, 1897).

5. Ibid., p. 570.

6. Ibid., p. 560.

7. Ibid., p. 563.

8. Ibid., p. 561.

9. Ibid., p. 562.

10. Ibid. The comparison or parallel between architecture and the human body finds its architectural origins in the writings of Vitruvius, The Ten Books on Architecture (trans. M. H. Morgan, New York, 1960) written for the Imperator Caesar. That the comparison persists well into the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries may be seen by consulting such journals as The Builder's Magazine or The Civil Engineer and Architect's Journal : among other terms in these journals, we find eye, eye-brow, face, elbow, dentells, nose, buttocks , and bust , let alone those more polite terms such as joint used by Pater. See The Builder's Magazine (London, 1774) and The Civil Engineer and Architect's Journal II (London, 1839), p. 365. Also see my discussion in Chapter V, section one, pp. 229-233.

4. Walter Pater, "Style," in Prose of the Victorian Period , ed. W. E. Buckler (Cambridge, Massachusetts, 1958), p. 566. "Style" first appeared in Fortnightly Review (December 1888) continue

and subsequently in Appreciations; With an Essay on Style (London and New York, 1897).

5. Ibid., p. 570.

6. Ibid., p. 560.

7. Ibid., p. 563.

8. Ibid., p. 561.

9. Ibid., p. 562.

10. Ibid. The comparison or parallel between architecture and the human body finds its architectural origins in the writings of Vitruvius, The Ten Books on Architecture (trans. M. H. Morgan, New York, 1960) written for the Imperator Caesar. That the comparison persists well into the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries may be seen by consulting such journals as The Builder's Magazine or The Civil Engineer and Architect's Journal : among other terms in these journals, we find eye, eye-brow, face, elbow, dentells, nose, buttocks , and bust , let alone those more polite terms such as joint used by Pater. See The Builder's Magazine (London, 1774) and The Civil Engineer and Architect's Journal II (London, 1839), p. 365. Also see my discussion in Chapter V, section one, pp. 229-233.

4. Walter Pater, "Style," in Prose of the Victorian Period , ed. W. E. Buckler (Cambridge, Massachusetts, 1958), p. 566. "Style" first appeared in Fortnightly Review (December 1888) continue

and subsequently in Appreciations; With an Essay on Style (London and New York, 1897).

5. Ibid., p. 570.

6. Ibid., p. 560.

7. Ibid., p. 563.

8. Ibid., p. 561.

9. Ibid., p. 562.

10. Ibid. The comparison or parallel between architecture and the human body finds its architectural origins in the writings of Vitruvius, The Ten Books on Architecture (trans. M. H. Morgan, New York, 1960) written for the Imperator Caesar. That the comparison persists well into the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries may be seen by consulting such journals as The Builder's Magazine or The Civil Engineer and Architect's Journal : among other terms in these journals, we find eye, eye-brow, face, elbow, dentells, nose, buttocks , and bust , let alone those more polite terms such as joint used by Pater. See The Builder's Magazine (London, 1774) and The Civil Engineer and Architect's Journal II (London, 1839), p. 365. Also see my discussion in Chapter V, section one, pp. 229-233.

4. Walter Pater, "Style," in Prose of the Victorian Period , ed. W. E. Buckler (Cambridge, Massachusetts, 1958), p. 566. "Style" first appeared in Fortnightly Review (December 1888) continue

and subsequently in Appreciations; With an Essay on Style (London and New York, 1897).

5. Ibid., p. 570.

6. Ibid., p. 560.

7. Ibid., p. 563.

8. Ibid., p. 561.

9. Ibid., p. 562.

10. Ibid. The comparison or parallel between architecture and the human body finds its architectural origins in the writings of Vitruvius, The Ten Books on Architecture (trans. M. H. Morgan, New York, 1960) written for the Imperator Caesar. That the comparison persists well into the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries may be seen by consulting such journals as The Builder's Magazine or The Civil Engineer and Architect's Journal : among other terms in these journals, we find eye, eye-brow, face, elbow, dentells, nose, buttocks , and bust , let alone those more polite terms such as joint used by Pater. See The Builder's Magazine (London, 1774) and The Civil Engineer and Architect's Journal II (London, 1839), p. 365. Also see my discussion in Chapter V, section one, pp. 229-233.

11. Window is actually a combined form of wind (weather, air in motion, formless or unembodied, external energy) and eye (the seeing or perceiving edge of mind). See E. Klein, A Complete Etymological Dictionary of the English Language (Amsterdam, London, New York, 1966). See also my discussion of James, Chapter IV, section two, especially p. 185.

12. Pater, p. 568.

13. Pater, "Conclusion," in Prose of the Victorian Period , ed. W. E. Buckler (Cambridge, Massachusetts, 1958), p. 551. "Conclusion" originally appeared in Studies in the History of the Renaissance (London, 1873). The title was changed in the 1912 edition to The Renaissance: Studies in Art and Poetry .

14. Pater, "Style," p. 570.

15. "F," p. 208.

16. Ibid. break

15. "F," p. 208.

16. Ibid. break

17. Pater, here, is working within the tradition of other Victorians, especially architects, who used buildings to stimulate associations. For an excellent historical account of the architectural tradition, see the opening chapters of George Hersey, High Victorian Gothic: A Study in Associationism (Baltimore, Maryland, 1972). Pater's attitude to architecture is typical, I think, of the general English tendency in the visual arts towards the literary, the associational, the picturesque. This view is still, in the twentieth century, widely accepted. See George Hersey (text cited above); Sir Nikolaus Pevsner, Some Architectural Writers of the Nineteenth Century (London, 1972); Lord Kenneth Clark, The Gothic Revival (London, 1928).

18. Pater, "Style," p. 562.

19. Walter Pater, "Emerald Uthwart," in Imaginary Portraits , ed. E. J. Brzenk (London, 1964), p. 58. "Emerald Uthwart" first appeared in New Review (June and July 1892) and was reprinted in Miscellaneous Studies: A Series of Essays (London, 1895).

20. Pater, Imaginary Portraits , p. 17. For an illuminating discussion of Pater published after I had written my essay, see Richard Wollheim, "Walter Pater as a Critic of the Arts," in On Art and the Mind (London, 1973), especially pp. 160, 166, and 169. Professor Wollheim recognizes the importance of the genre Imaginary Portraits; he also discusses Pater's          philosophy of aesthetics with attention to Pater's concepts of language and mind.

21. Pater, "A Prince of Court Painters," Imaginary Portraits , pp. 95-96. "A Prince of Court Painters" first appeared in Macmillan's Magazine (October 1885) and subsequently in Imaginary Portraits (London and New York, 1887).

22. For my knowledge of the ars memoria tradition, I am indebted to Frances Yates, The Art of Memory (London, 1958), not only for her own excellent writing but also for her bibliography on the memory tradition. For an interesting account of the ut architectura poesis tradition , see Alastair Fowler, "Pe- soft

riodization and Interart Analogies," New Literary History , September 1972, especially pp. 501-503, and Per Palme, " Ut Architectura Poesis ," in Idea and Form , ed. N. G. Sandblad, Acta Universitatis Upsaliensis, Figura Nova Series, I (Uppsala, 1959), 95-107.

23. For a discussion of architectural manuals, see Chapter V below.

24. For a discussion of architectural borrowings, see Peter Collins, Changing Ideals in Modern Architecture (London, 1965), pp. 173-185.

25. Pater, "Prosper Mérimée," in Miscellaneous Studies: A Series of Essays , ed. C. L. Shadwell (London, 1895), p. 18. "Prosper Mérimée" was presented as a lecture at Oxford (November 1890); it was published in Fortnightly Review (December 1890) and subsequently reprinted in Miscellaneous Studies (London, 1895).

26. John Ruskin, The Seven Lamps of Architecture, Works , VIII, ed. E. T. Cook and Alexander Wedderburn (London, 1902-1912), 224. All my citations to Ruskin throughout Literary Architecture will be to this, the Library Edition, of his works.

27. Ibid.

26. John Ruskin, The Seven Lamps of Architecture, Works , VIII, ed. E. T. Cook and Alexander Wedderburn (London, 1902-1912), 224. All my citations to Ruskin throughout Literary Architecture will be to this, the Library Edition, of his works.

27. Ibid.

28. Pater, "Emerald Uthwart," Imaginary Portraits , pp. 54-55.

29. Ibid., p. 57.

28. Pater, "Emerald Uthwart," Imaginary Portraits , pp. 54-55.

29. Ibid., p. 57.

30. Pater, Plato and Platonism: A Series of Lectures (London, 1893), p. 245.

31. Pater's design is generally static, the fixed structure of house-mind or the equally fixed architectonic of literary style. Predictably, growth or movement, as the soul of character or of style, occurs within spatial confines of structure or outside. While furniture and decor may change, even the "quasi-decorative" people, only rarely would one alter completed structures. More often, especially in Pater's fiction, an entire site is abandoned when its symbolic or associative import has been fully exploited. This movement has been documented continue

by numerous Pater critics, especially as it occurs in Marius the Epicurean .

32. Pater, "The Child in the House," Imaginary Portraits , p. 16. "The Child in the House" first appeared as "Imaginary Portrait, The Child in the House'' in Macmillan's Magazine (August 1878). Pater's use of "home" as the starting-point for this fictional reminiscence suggests to me a passage by Thomas Aquinas. Aquinas writes, "It is necessary for reminiscence to take some starting-point, whence one begins to proceed to reminisce. For this reason some men may be seen to reminisce from places in which they were children, where something was said or done, or thought, using the place as it were as the starting-point for reminiscence; because access to the place is like a starting-point for all those things raised in it" (Thomas Aquinas, In Aristotelis libros de sensu et sensato, de memoria et reminiscentia commentarium , ed., R. M. Spiazzi, Turin and Rome, 1949), p. 107. My translation is that of Frances Yates, The Art of Memory (London, 1966), p. 82.

33. Florian's first quality of "intelligence," interestingly, perceived by his mother is the quality of his memory. See p. 19.

34. Pater, "The Child in the House," pp. 16-17.

35. Ibid., p. 17.

36. Ibid., p. 18.

37. Ibid., p. 17.

38. Ibid., p. 19.

34. Pater, "The Child in the House," pp. 16-17.

35. Ibid., p. 17.

36. Ibid., p. 18.

37. Ibid., p. 17.

38. Ibid., p. 19.

34. Pater, "The Child in the House," pp. 16-17.

35. Ibid., p. 17.

36. Ibid., p. 18.

37. Ibid., p. 17.

38. Ibid., p. 19.

34. Pater, "The Child in the House," pp. 16-17.

35. Ibid., p. 17.

36. Ibid., p. 18.

37. Ibid., p. 17.

38. Ibid., p. 19.

34. Pater, "The Child in the House," pp. 16-17.

35. Ibid., p. 17.

36. Ibid., p. 18.

37. Ibid., p. 17.

38. Ibid., p. 19.

39. For this discussion, I am using the most generalizable characteristics of the artificial memory system as conceived by classical rhetors. Again, my indebtedness is to Frances Yates for such a summary.

40. Pater, "Style," p. 562.

41. Ibid.

40. Pater, "Style," p. 562.

41. Ibid.

42. While I do not wish to speculate as to the reasons for Pater's fears, I do think it important to notice that Proust, Hopkins, and James do not quite share Pater's pessimism and morbidity; and perhaps the absence of fear—what we might prefer to call the presence of literary daring—helps or enables continue

these other writers to achieve creatively what Pater could at best understand and suggest.

43. Pater, "Style," p. 559.

44. Pater, "Notre Dame d'Amiens," in Miscellaneous Studies (London, 1924), pp. 124-125.

1. Gerard Manley Hopkins, The Letters of Gerard Manley Hopkins to Robert Bridges , ed. Claude Colleer Abbott (London, 1955), pp. 209-210. Further citations to definitive editions of Hopkins's work will appear in parentheses following the passage quoted. I have used the standard abbreviations:

CD The Correspondence of Gerard Manley Hopkins and Richard Watson Dixon , ed. Claude Colleer Abbott (London, 1955).

FL Further Letters of Gerard Manley Hopkins , ed. Claude Colleer Abbott, 2nd ed. (London, 1956).

JP Journals and Papers of Gerard Manley Hopkins , ed. Humphry House and Graham Storey (London, 1959).

LB The Letters of Gerard Manley Hopkins to Robert Bridges , ed. Claude Colleer Abbott (London, 1955).

All references to Hopkins's poems are drawn from The Poems of Gerard Manley Hopkins , ed. W. H. Gardner and N. H. MacKenzie, 4th ed. (London, 1967).

2. John Henry Parker, A Glossary of Terms used in Grecian, Roman, Italian and Gothic Architecture , 5th ed., enl. (Oxford, 1850). 1st. ed. J. H. Parker, 1846. The Glossary is in three volumes, the first giving the terms in alphabetical order, the second two giving drawings as appropriate examples.

3. This refers to Figure 1 in JP, reproduced here in Plate 11 (upper left). break

4. Hopkins refers to the meaning of keel at least three times elsewhere in his journals. This particular reference is preceded by a drawing of a Gothic window (JP Figure 23), reproduced here as Plate 10.

1. Gerard Manley Hopkins, The Letters of Gerard Manley Hopkins to Robert Bridges , ed. Claude Colleer Abbott (London, 1955), pp. 209-210. Further citations to definitive editions of Hopkins's work will appear in parentheses following the passage quoted. I have used the standard abbreviations:

CD The Correspondence of Gerard Manley Hopkins and Richard Watson Dixon , ed. Claude Colleer Abbott (London, 1955).

FL Further Letters of Gerard Manley Hopkins , ed. Claude Colleer Abbott, 2nd ed. (London, 1956).

JP Journals and Papers of Gerard Manley Hopkins , ed. Humphry House and Graham Storey (London, 1959).

LB The Letters of Gerard Manley Hopkins to Robert Bridges , ed. Claude Colleer Abbott (London, 1955).

All references to Hopkins's poems are drawn from The Poems of Gerard Manley Hopkins , ed. W. H. Gardner and N. H. MacKenzie, 4th ed. (London, 1967).

5. See JP Figure 17, reproduced here as Plate 15. See also Plates 13, 14, and 16. Hopkins's drawings, especially on these pages, are remarkably similar to the hair and water studies of Leonardo da Vinci and reflect Hopkins's interest in rhythm, motion, mechanical action, interests Leonardo held as well.

6. The rest of the passage is interesting: "One day early in March when long streamers were rising from over Kemble End one large flake loop-shaped, not a streamer but belonging to the string, moving too slowly to be seen, seemed to cap and fill the zenith with a white shire of cloud. I looked long up at it till the tall height and the beauty of the scaping—regularly curled knots springing if I remember from fine stems, like foliation in wood or stone—had strongly grown on me. It changed beautiful changes, growing more into ribs and one stretch of running into branching like coral. Unless you refresh the mind from time to time you cannot always remember or believe how deep the inscape in things is" (JP, 204-205, 1871). (Plate 19)

7. Walter Pater, "Style" ( Fortnightly Review , December 1888), as reprinted in Prose of the Victorian Period , ed. W. E. Buckler (Cambridge, Mass., 1958), p. 561.

8. I      bid.

7. Walter Pater, "Style" ( Fortnightly Review , December 1888), as reprinted in Prose of the Victorian Period , ed. W. E. Buckler (Cambridge, Mass., 1958), p. 561.

8. I      bid.

9. Hopkins comments, "It is because where the structure forces us to appreciate each syllable it is natural and in the order of things for us to dwell on all modifications affecting the general result or type which the ear preserves and accordingly with such as are themselves harmonious we are pleased, but in prose where syllables have none or little determinate value to emphasize them is unmeaning" (JP, 85, 1865).

10. Its full title originally read "Rhythm and the other Structural Parts of Oratory and Poetry—Verse—." It was cor- soft

rected by Hopkins to read "Rhythm and other structural parts of Rhetoric-Verse."

11. For this letter I thank Paul Thompson, who came across it in reading Butterfield's correspondence in preparation for William Butterfield (London, 1972).

12. Hopkins continually spelled Babbacombe "Babbicombe."

1. Comte Jean de Gaigneron, from a letter in his possession, translated by and quoted from André Maurois, The Quest for Proust (London, 1962), pp. 178-179. Because of the controversy over translation of Proust's title A la recherche du temps perdu , I am retaining the French. All references to the text are to the two-volume Random House edition (1934), translated by C. K. Scott-Moncrieff and Frederick A. Blossom. Citations appear in parentheses, indicating first the volume and then the page number.

2. Recall Walter pater's entire statement: "For the literary architecture, if it is to be rich and expressive, involves not only foresight of the end in the beginning, but also development or growth of design, in the process of execution, with many irregularities, surprises, and afterthoughts; the contingent as well as the necessary being submitted under the unity of the whole. As truly, to the lack of such architectural design . . . informing an entire, perhaps very intricate, composition, which shall be . . . true from first to last to that vision within, may be attributed those weaknesses of conscious or unconscious repetition of word, phrase, motive or member of the whole matter, indicating, as Flaubert was aware, an original structure in thought not organically complete." (W. Pater, "Style," in Prose of the Victorian Period , ed. W. E. Buckler, Cambridge, Massachusetts, 1958, p. 562.) That Proust knew Pater's writings is documented in conversation with Proust continue

and by Proust's explicit citations of Pater in his essays. See Sybil de Souza, L'Influence de Ruskin sur Proust (Montpellier, 1932), pp. 43-44; and Marcel Proust, A Massacre of Churches , trans. G. Hopkins (London, 1948), p. 76.

3. Gilles Deleuze, Proust and Signs , trans. R. Howard (London, 1974), p. 143. I am indebted, throughout this chapter, to Deleuze's excellent analysis of Proust.

4. Cf. Richard Macksey, "Architecture of Time: Dialectics and Structure" (pp. 104-122), and Georges Poulet, "Proust and Human Time" (pp. 150-179), in Proust: A Collection of Critical Essays , ed. R. Girard (Englewood Cliffs, N.J., 1962). See especially pages 119-121, and 174-177. For a recent and extensive discussion of Proust and architecture, see J. Theodore Johnson, Jr., "Marcel Proust et l'architecture: considérations sur le problème du roman-cathédrale," in Bulletin de la Société des Amis de Marcel Proust et des Amis de Combray , Nos. 25 and 26 (1975, 1976). Johnson's discussion emphasizes the parallels between Proust and Ruskin and between Proust and Mâle.

5. See S. T. Coleridge, Philosophical Lectures [1818-1819], hitherto unpublished (London, 1949). The whole is larger than, at times prior to, the parts: "Depend on it, whatever is grand, whatever is truly organic and living, the whole is prior to the parts" (p. 196). Biographia Literaria , ed. J. Shawcross (Oxford, 1907), I, 180, 185. See also Shakespearean Criticism , I, ed. T. M. Raysor (Cambridge, Mass., 1930), 212-213.

6. Proust, "John Ruskin," in A Massacre of Churches , p. 59. Proust's definition of stones as "living thoughts" enables him to search for and discover those thoughts imprinted in architectural materials. But Proust carries Ruskin a step further; not only do the stones retaïn the thoughts of the craftsman, but they contain those of the architectural historian as well. For this reason, Proust finds Ruskin in the stones of Amiens: "Before I knew whether I should find it there, it was Ruskin's soul I sought, that soul which he carved as deeply into the stones of Amiens as did ever they who made the sculptures, for the words of genius are no less effective than the chisel in giving an immortal form to things" (pp. 54-55). Elsewhere continue

Proust instructs his reader: "You run no risk of spending an afternoon in the town without being able to find him [Ruskin] in the cathedral" (pp. 18-19).

What is also interesting about Proust's essays on Ruskin is his application of associative and memory devices to a work of criticism. Proust writes, "I have tried to equip the reader with, as it were, an improvised memory, furnishing it with Ruskin's other works—a kind of whispering-gallery in which the words taken from the Bible of Amiens may establish themselves in his mind by dint of calling forth related echoes" (p. 24). Not only does Proust use the language of architecture to describe the improvised, critical memory he supplies for the reader; but Proust also describes, in this passage, the kind of memory system he adapts to fiction and structures into A la recherche . See section four of this chapter.

7. Ruskin as quoted by Proust, "John Ruskin," p. 54.

8. John Ruskin, "The Nature of the Gothic," The Stones of Venice, Works , X, 190.

9. Ruskin, p. 212.

10. Ibid., p. 240.

9. Ruskin, p. 212.

10. Ibid., p. 240.

11. Macksey, p. 120.

12. Translation is, interestingly, the term used by Alastair Fowler to describe the function of interart analogies. Fowler writes, "Every interart comparison, even between two visual arts, involves a metaphor ('translation')." See A. Fowler, "Periodization and Interart Analogies," in New Literary History , September 1972, p. 499. Proust himself uses the term, giving to it a great importance: "The duty and task of a writer," claims Proust, ''are those of a translator" (II, 1009). In this sense, the skills required of the reader are also those of the writer; once again, Proust has asked his audience to participate in the making of the "subjective book" A la recherche .

Translation , to look back for a moment, was also the term Pater used when he described literary architecture: "Well! All language involves translation from inward to outward," continue

translation of that private "vision." See "Style," in Prose of the Victorian Period , p. 568. In Pater, the idea of translation hinges on the opposition between inside and outside; in Proust, the same assumption holds, but the term is used in such a way that it involves skill and control.

13. E. Klein, A Complete Etymological Dictionary of the English Language (Amsterdam, London, New York, 1966). For form , see mer-bh ; for idea , see weid . That form comes from a word meaning "to sparkle, gleam" makes sense: we know—can see—form by the light it gives off; in this way, edge of light—beginning of contrast—determines or signifies the shape of the form we see.

14. The image also suggests Picasso collages, which not only display fragments but use the very materials themselves. I have chosen to name Degas since Proust acknowledges his work and since Proust's affinities, in this matter, are more with the Impressionists and Neo-Impressionists.

15. "Mis-knowing" constitutes misreading structures or rooms. Marcel's family misconstrued, probably deliberately, Swann's face, reading it as "a face vacant and roomy as an untenanted house" in which they put their own knowledge of Swann and memory of him. They planted "in the depths of its unvalued eyes a lingering sense . . . of idle hours spent together after our weekly dinners, round the card-table or in the garden, during our companionable country life" (I, 15).

16. There are various relationships mind assumes with respect to room: having fantasies involves stopping-up, sealing windows and doors, closing off rooms; seeking or recalling often involves the "mind straying beyond its borders"; thinking involves clearing an empty space; understanding, penetration through façades. Although one mental act can take more than one image, Proust's images are consistent. Likewise, the image can be more or less expansive: the mind can be an entire "city" of which Combray is only a "quarter" (I, 37).

17. Marcel remarks, "Style is for the writer, as for the painter, a question, not of technique but of vision" (II, 1013). For an excellent discussion of inside/outside in terms of visual continue

perception and A la recherche , see R. Shattuck, Proust's Binoculars (New York, 1964), especially pp. 18-19, 21, 42-47; see also H. Moss, The Magic Lantern of Marcel Proust (New York, 1962), Chap. 3, p. 37. Finally, for inside/outside in terms of dialectics, see R. Macksey, "The Architecture of Time: Dialectics and Structure," ed. cit. (n. 4 above), especially pp. 104-110.

18. The concept of penetration—which demands an architectural analogue—is crucial to Proust. The work of the artist, Marcel claims, is "to seek to discern something different underneath material, experience, words" (II, 1013); for "reality," Marcel realizes, is to "be found, not in the outward appearance of the subject, but in the extent to which this impression had penetrated to a depth where that appearance was of little importance" (II, 1003). Of supposed truths which do not involve penetration, Marcel writes, "As for the truths which the intelligence—even that of the finest minds—garners right out in the open, lying before it in broad daylight, their value may be very great, but they have harsher outlines and are all on the surface, with no depth, because no depths had to be penetrated in order to get to them and they have not been re-created" (II, 1015). Memory façades are inadequate precisely because they do not permit penetration. See II, 1069, and II, 1122, regarding the difference between ''illustrations" which are insufficient and "impressions" which, because one can "plumb [them] to their depths" are adequate. Also see sections three and four of this chapter, including note 22, for a discussion of penetration in terms of language and memory.

Imprinting— as the converse of being impressed—is as necessary as penetration : once Marcel can stamp furniture "with the imprint of a living personality," he can return to it or re-conjure it and retrieve from it that special meaning he put there. (See Marcel in Swann's house, I, 411). So, too, in art: "This book, the most difficult of all to decipher, is also the only one dictated to us by reality, the only one the 'imprinting' of which on our consciousness was done by reality itself. No matter what idea life may have implanted within us, its material representation, the outline of the impression it has made continue

upon us, is always the guarantee of its indispensable truth" (II, 1001).

Thus we see Proust's attraction to material architecture as analogue for the immaterial art of literature which conjures feelings and images much as dreams do, assigning no touchable, seeable place to those feelings and images. The great temple—as head, church, literature—protects and embodies the ephemeral and felt. Likewise, the material object Proust has chosen has within it the space necessary for growth: we cannot move (be quick), pay attention (learn, see, act, react), in space crowded with obstacles; this would be to be pre-occupied . (The eye-pupil, puns intended, is accessible, open space.) Our habitations, mental and physical, require empty centers as room for aliveness much as these habitations must look out-for health-upon the open universe.

19. Proust's translations of Ruskin are The Bible of Amiens ( La Bible d' Amiens , 1904) and Sesame and Lilies ( Sesame et les lys , 1906). Much of the preface to Sesame and Lilies is repeated in Days of Reading , I (1919), trans. G. Hopkins, in Marcel Proust: A Selection from His Miscellaneous Writings (London, 1948), pp. 107-146. See also Proust's discussion of Ruskin: In Memory of a Massacre of Churches , in G. Hopkins's Marcel Proust , pp. 11-107. Throughout these essays Proust concedes Ruskin's formative influence on Proust's art tastes; he also remarks Ruskin's prose style, even his "retrospective unity" in Sesame and Lilies (pp. 170-171). For early critical studies of Ruskin's influence on Proust, see:               J. Murray, "Influence of Ruskin on Proust," Proceedings of the Leeds Philosophical and Literary Society , 1928-32; and S. de Souza, L'Influence de Ruskin sur Proust (Montpellier, 1932). Most discussions of Ruskin and Proust emphasize the stylistic influence rather than Ruskin's art-theoretical impact. Recently there has been a critical turning away from claims of stylistic similarities between Ruskin and Proust in an attempt to show Proust's stylistic innovations. See B. Bucknall, The Religion of Art in Proust (Urbana, Ill., 1969), for an intelligent discussion of Proust's departures from Ruskin. break

The few instances in which Ruskin is mentioned directly in A la recherche are generally ironic in tone, meant to distinguish the dreaming, immature Marcel from an architectural critic or literary artist. See, for instance, A la recherche , I, 493: Marcel's grandmother gently teases the tearful Marcel on his way to Balbec, for Marcel is already missing his mother. "Surely this is not the enraptured tourist Ruskin speaks of," Marcel's grandmother remarks. At the end of A la recherche , the mature Marcel comments on the importance of his architectural studies, "The study of architecture corrected in me some of the instincts I had formed at Combray" (II, 972). There are many quotations from Ruskin throughout A la recherche , mostly from Modern Painters , I; while these are set off by quotation marks, they are generally not acknowledged as Ruskin's.

20. Days of Reading , I, 142.

21. Albertine's action is destructive, Marcel's constructive. Destruction, however, is not equivalent to the dematerializing I speak of later. Albertine destroys the essence of architecture by making it into ices even before she destroys it by eating. In my description of the writer's task, I have chosen the term must to suggest Proust's concept of artistic imperative; "necessity" distinguishes art from the voluntarism of the intellectual or philosophical. See A la recherche , II, 1001.

22. Among the many ways in which Marcel restates the writer's task are these: "But recreating through memory impressions which must then be plumbed to their depths, brought into the light and transformed into intellectual equivalents, was this not one of the prerequisites, almost the very essence, of a work of art such as I had conceived it in the library a few moments ago?" (II, 1122). And literary style, for Marcel, "is the revelation—impossible by direct and conscious means—of the qualitative differences in the way the world appears to us, differences which, but for art, would remain the eternal secret of each of us" (II, 1013). See also A la recherche , II, 1008-1009, and the end of this chapter section. Coupled with his rejection of subjective or solipsistic perceptions not transformed into something public and accessible is Marcel's criticism of superficial thinking which neither "plumbs depths" nor propounds anything of value: for an "art of continue

reality," Marcel comments, "more than anything else, I would exclude, therefore, all those remarks that come from the lips rather than the mind, clever remarks such as one makes in conversation" (II, 1014-1015). Facile, conversational images have nothing to do with essences and art.

23. Marcel cites his own, early misreadings: A la recherche , II, 1000, 1001, and 1003.

24. Cf. A la recherche , II, 1013 passim. "Literature is more than art; it is truth" (II, 1014). Music is, for Proust, "pure essence," and " sine materia " (I, 160); as such, it, too, is inadequate as an art analogue of literature because it has no material counterpart to metaphor. Re architecture as a non-referential structure, see Ruskin, "The Nature of the Gothic," The Stones of Venice, Works , X, 213-214. Ruskin states, ''A picture or poem is often little more than a feeble utterance of man's admiration of something out of himself; but architecture approaches more to a creation of his own, born of his necessities, and expressive of his nature. It is also, in some sort, the work of the whole race . . . therefore we may expect that the first two elements of good architecture should be expressive of some great truths commonly belonging to the whole race, and necessary to be understood or felt by them in all their work that they do under the sun." While Proust does not put poetry into the category that Ruskin does, he agrees with Ruskin's definition of architecture's greatness, applying the same qualities to literary art. (What must also be noted is that Ruskin distinguishes between "poems" and "poetry," never disparaging the latter.)

In terms of Proust's objection to certain misuses of subjective impressions, see A la recherche , II, 1019. The artist must "transcribe [forgotten words] into a universal language, which at any rate will be permanent and would make of our lost ones, in the truest essence of their natures, an eternal acquisition for all human beings." The passage goes on to develop the image of the artist constructing his "building of the monument" out of "stones" brought to him by each woman he has known. The literary structure is thus universal and accessible; moreover, it is a composite of many particulars, continue

of many stones, from the artist's life and can therefore teach "love of the general" as well as the particular. See also II, 1022.

For the two-fold nature of art and experience, see A la recherche , II, 1010. Albertine does not perceive that "every                  impression has two parts, one of them incorporated in the object and the other prolonged within ourselves." Without analysis of both aspects of an impression, there can be no real communication.

25. See note 6 above. Proust's definition stands in contrast to Pater's "minute dead bodies." See Chapter I above.

26. Ruskin as quoted by Proust, "Days of Pilgrimage," from In Memory of a Massacre of Churches , p. 54.

27. Proust, "Days of Pilgrimage," p. 53. See also the remarkable rendering or "reading" of Saint-Hilaire, A la recherche , I, 45-51. Not only does Marcel decipher every sign in the church; he also attributes to the church literary qualities. The steeple of Saint-Hilaire "inscribes" its form upon the sky; its "memorial stones" overflow their ''margins," or are "reabsorbed into their limits, contracting still further a crabbed Latin inscription, bringing a fresh touch of fantasy into the arrangement of its curtailed characters, closing together two letters of some word of which the rest were disproportionately scattered" (I, 45).

28. Proust, Days of Reading , I, 142-143.

29. See, for instance, Dionysius of Halicarnassus, On Literary Composition , trans. and ed. W. R. Roberts (London, 1910). Of the arrangement of words, he writes: "It must be remembered that, in the case of all the other arts which employ various materials and produce from them a composite result—arts such as building, carpentry, embroidery and the like—the faculties of composition are second in order of time to those of selection, but are nevertheless of greater importance" (p. 73). Even more striking is Dionysius' discussion of the three processes in the art of composition. His analogue is the house builder: "When a builder has provided himself with the material from which he intends to construct a house—stones, timbers, tiling, and all the rest—he then puts together the continue

structure from these, studying the following three things: what stone, timber and brick can be united with what other stone, timber and brick; next how each piece of the material that is being so united should be set, and on which of its faces; thirdly, if anything fits badly, how that particular thing can be chipped and trimmed and made to fit exactly. A like course should, I affirm, be followed by those who are to succeed in literary composition. They should first consider in what groupings with other nouns, verbs, or other parts of speech, will be placed appropriately, and how not so well; for surely every possible combination cannot affect the ear in the same way" (p. 105). Regarding "Austere Composition," Dionysius of Halicarnassus assents that each word "should be seen on every side, and . . . the parts should be appreciable distances from one another, being separated by perceptible intervals. It [austere composition] does not in the least shrink from using frequently harsh sound-clashings which jar on the ear; like blocks of building stone that are laid together unworked, blocks that are not square and smooth, but preserve their natural roughness and irregularity. It is prone for the most part to expansion by means of great, spacious words. It objects to being confined to short syllables, except under occasional stress of necessity" (p. 211). In this composition, Dionysius of Halicarnassus cites tapestry as an analogue for interweaving, painting for gradations and shading, music for tone and pitch. See my discussion of the architecture-literature analogue in tradition, in Chapter V, section four, pp. 249-252.

30. Proust, Days of Reading , I, 143-144.

31. Ibid., pp. 144-145.

32. Ibid., p. 144.

30. Proust, Days of Reading , I, 143-144.

31. Ibid., pp. 144-145.

32. Ibid., p. 144.

30. Proust, Days of Reading , I, 143-144.

31. Ibid., pp. 144-145.

32. Ibid., p. 144.

33. Proust, "About Flaubert's Style," in Marcel Proust , trans. G. Hopkins, p. 226.

34. In the sense that it connects or spans, the metaphor is the linguistic counterpart of Time which, as it traverses, is likewise rendered incarnate by the architectural analogue. But in another sense, the metaphor is the antithesis of Time continue

because it presents essences "freed from the contingencies of Time" (II, 1008-1009).

35. These are two of the four section titles from In Memory of a Massacre of Churches .

36. It is curious that in all Ruskin's discussions of memory (cf. "The Lamp of Memory" in The Seven Lamps of Architecture ), he only mentions the artificial art of memory, Proust's Mnemotechnia, once; and this comment occurs in the piece Proust chose to translate, The Bible of Amiens . There Ruskin, like Proust, decides not to use Mnemotechnia; but he, too, is careful not to slight her: "Without ignobly trusting the devices of artificial memory—far less slighting the pleasure and power of resolute and thoughtful memory—my younger readers will find it extremely useful to note any coincidences or links of number which may serve to secure in their minds what may be called Dates of Anchorage, round which others, less important, may swing at various cables' lengths" ( Works , XXXIII, 38). See also note 6 above.

37. There is classical precedent, within the memory tradition itself, for this analogue between reminiscence and literature. Bartolomeo da San Concordio (1262-1347) writes: "Of those things which we wish to remember, we should place in certain places images and similitudes. And Tullius adds that the places are like tablets, or paper, and the images like letters, and placing the images is like writing, and speaking is like reading" ( Ammaestramenti degli antichi , IX, viii, trans. by F. Yates in The Art of Memory , London, 1966, pp. 97-98).

Marcel also reads the classics visually; and his assimilation of Berma's acting to his own image—frescoes on vast walls—suggests the artificial memory system. Marcel thinks, "The old plays, the classics which I knew by heart, presented themselves to me as vast and empty walls, reserved and made ready for my inspection, on which I should be able to appreciate without any restriction the devices by which Berma would cover them, as with frescoes, with the perpetually fresh continue

treasures of her inspiration" (I, 339). See Philostratus the Elder and the Younger, Imagines ; and Erasmus, Convivium Religiosum , trans. W. R. Woodward (Cambridge, England, 1904), in Desiderius Erasmus, Concerning the Aim and Method of Education , pp. 226-230.

38. Thomas Aquinas, In Aristotelis libros de sensu et sensato, de memoria et reminiscentia commentarius , as trans. by F. Yates in The Art of Memory , p. 82. Miss Yates renders the entire passage: "It is necessary for reminiscence to take some starting-point, whence one begins to proceed to reminisce. For this reason, some men may be seen to reminisce from the places in which something was said or done, or thought, using the place as it were as the starting-point for reminiscence; because access to the place is like a starting-point for all those things which were raised in it. Whence Tullius teaches in his Rhetoric that for easy remembering one should imagine a certain order of places upon which images ( phantasmata ) of all those things which we wish to remember are distributed in order." Proust, it is true, uses "place"; but he does not so systematize memory as to impose rigid order upon his images. The modification is important; for order, like habit, is destructive to imagination and art. In this, Proust follows late-nineteenth-century values; even Ruskin remarks that "love of order is not love of art'' ("Nature of the Gothic," Stones of Venice, Works , X, 205). Thus, in Proust's "voluntary memory," order is still not in the service of his narrative technique as much as are surprise, interruption, and so forth.

39. See not only the description of Saint-Hilaire (I, 45-51), but the other important church descriptions throughout, especially the church at Balbec, Saint Mark's, and Saint-André-des-Champs.

40. The complete discourse on names as triggering devices for visual images is strikingly similar to the process described in The Mind of a Mnemonist , by R. Luria, a psychologist's account of a man with a remarkable memory. Proust, also renowned for his memory, uses almost precisely the same techniques Luria records. Professor Ernst Gombrich first suggested that I look at Luria's book as evidence of Miss Yates's continue

memory system in modern times and in natural memories; Proust likewise proves the success of the devices proposed by         the classical tradition, but like Luria's mnemonist, he does so without the pretext of a system. Furthermore, Proust does so creatively, in the making of a fiction, whereas Luria's mnemonist, because of his memory, could not understand fiction and certainly could not write it. What I find especially interesting in Proust is that love of words and memory for words involve synaesthetic equivalents: "Bayeux, so lofty in its noble coronet of rusty lace, whose highest point caught the light of the old gold of its second syllable; Vitré, whose acute accent barred its ancient glass with wooden lozenges; Coutances, a Norman Cathedral, which its final consonants, rich and yellowing, crowned with a tower of butter" (I, 297 passim). Luria's mnemonist saw colors, lights, and images as well; but he also heard high pitch frequencies or notes with each word. When one tries to recall a word one recalls all the synaesthetic associations first. It is only in our habitual use of language that we forget to feel, touch, taste, and see words.

41. See note 18 above, on "penetration" to "truths." Proust's criticism of realistic fiction extends to his attitude toward facts, which are neither "truths'' nor "essences." Hence, the destruction, during the war, of the church at Combray, is treated as insignificant, for it is insignificant narratively, compared with the power of evoking the church or reconstructing it. Likewise facts, what Swann remembers and what the Curé (who describes Saint-Hilaire) reports, are important to those individuals in some way deficient in aesthetic responses. The Curé prefers, for instance, to "read" Saint-Hilaire as a history of facts, whereas Marcel finds it a repository of legends. The Curé reports that the steeple has "seven and ninety steps"; Marcel sees the steeple as the "Finger of God," a "sign of art, this single indication of human existence" upon the landscape. Likewise, the Curé claims, regarding the windows Marcel so loves and so beautifully describes, "But don't talk to me about the windows. Is it common sense, I ask you, to leave up windows which shut out all the daylight, and even confuse the eyes by throwing patches of continue

colour, to which I should be hard put to it to give a name, on a floor in which there are not two slabs on the same level? And yet they refuse to renew the floor for me because . . . those are the tombstones of the Abbots of Combray" (I, 79). Stones of different levels are crucial to Marcel, for by tripping over an uneven stone, Marcel has his "break-through" involuntary memory (see II, 990-994). The Curé lends to A la recherche a kind of pseudo-historical veracity, giving in fact the etymology of words such that the reader learns of the actual Illiers, the town from which Combray is fashioned (I, 80). Within the whole of A la recherche , as the reader is educated by Proust and learns how to read and "create" this and his own book, history, facts, etymologies, all become subordinate to fantasy, analysis, vision, fiction.

42. See Proust's direct comparison between people and statues in "The Churches Saved," In Memory of a Massacre of Churches , ed. cit., p. 15. Proust discusses his driver, Agostinelli, who was killed in an auto crash, as a cathedral saint, holding a symbol. "But most of the time, he sat there with his hand upon the wheel—the instrument by which he steered, and like enough for comparison to those instruments of martyred consecration borne by the Apostles who stand against the columns of the Sainte-Chapelle in Paris . . . he held it as he might have done some symbolic object with which convention ordained that he should be associated. In just such a way, do saints in cathedral porches hold, one an anchor, one a wheel, a harp, a scythe, a gridiron, a hunting horn, a paint brush. But if these attributes were, in general, intended to recall the art which each, in life, had excellently practised, they sometimes served as a memorial of the nature of their final torment." Clearly, in Proust's essay, his narrative timing is off, the analogy too long; but nonetheless, Proust makes apparent his knowledge of the architectural tradition.

43.  See, for instance, A la recherche , I, 68; Proust uses the image of a figure before a Gothic cathedral as a prefiguration of Gilberte; the young Marcel can construct the image only because he has been introduced to the author Bergotte. "But the interruption which a visit from Swann once made, and the continue

commentary which he then supplied to the course of my reading, which had brought me to the work of an author quite new to me, called Bergotte, had this definite result that for a long time afterwards it was not against a wall gay with spikes of purple blossom, but on a wholly different background, the porch of a Gothic cathedral, that I would see outlined the figure of one of the women of whom I dreamed." Similarly, M. de Charlus is linked with the window of Gilbert-the-Bad (II, 564); but the image functions more to recall past associations, since Marcel does not remark the presage of the window when he first describes it fifteen hundred pages earlier.

[All references throughout this chapter are to the New York Edition of The Novels and Tales of Henry James (1907-1917).]

1. See the opening section above, "'The Stored-Consciousness': Marcel Proust," p. 119.

2. Henry James, The Art of the Novel: Critical Prefaces by Henry James (London, 1937), p. 216. All further citations from the prefaces will be to this edition and will be placed in parentheses (P) with a page reference following.

3. The entire passage only presumes but never states time frame (1). As it stands, the passage is framed, as it were, by the past (time frame 2). The passage opens: "Only the little rounded composition remained  . . ." and concludes, "these complacencies . . . swarmed  . . . while yet no brick stood ." I apologize for my use of technical language in this section of my book, but I have found the terms and numbers necessary in order to make James's methods as clear as possible.

4. It is possible to interpret the "temple" as the composition "The Point of View." This would mean that the "complacencies of perception" swarmed before "The Point of View" had been written, thus inspiring its composition. While I find many aspects of this interpretation compelling, my stronger feeling is that James would not switch images continue

from "lantern" to "temple"; I also think the verb tenses argue against such an interpretation.

5. Henry James, The Notebooks of Henry James , ed. F. O. Matthiessen and Kenneth B. Murdock (New York, 1947), especially pp. 325-335. For James's great respect for Ruskin, see The Art of Travel , ed. M. D. Zabel (New York, 1958), p. 13.

6. James, in fact, describes his literary muse as the "gentle Euphemia" (P, 1967). for a discussion of the relationship between Pater and James, see S. P. Sherman, "The Aesthetic Idealism of Henry James," reprinted in The Question of Henry James , ed. F. W. Dupee (New York, 1945), pp. 86-106. G. Melchiori also discusses this relationship in his essay "Two Mannerists: James and Hopkins," The Tight-Rope Walkers (London, 1950). Melchiori describes Pater as the link between Hopkins and James and shows, with wonderful sensitivity, the stylistic similarities between Hopkins and James. Ironically, however, while Melchiori does mention architecture with respect to his term mannerist and James's image in his preface to The Wings of the Dove (pp. 21-23), Melchiori never mentions Pater's or Hopkins's interest in architecture (although he does quote "Harry Ploughman"). Instead, Melchiori describes Hopkins's terms as primarily musical. Likewise, when he discusses James's ''room" images in The Wings , what he stresses is how James "inscaped" rooms, ignoring all the rich implications of the architecture itself.

7. There is much controversy among architectural historians over the Victorian architects' attitudes towards deliberate "ugliness" in architecture. See especially P. Thompson, William Butterfield (Cambridge, Mass., 1971), and Sir Nikolaus Pevsner, "Review," The Art Quarterly , 35, no. 3 (1972).

8. At times we may think of James's subject matter as the watchers themselves rather than what they watch. This would make of James a "watcher of watchers." James as much as continue

declares this the case when he writes of Newman in his preface to The American : "If Newman was attaching enough, I must have argued, this tangle would be sensible enough; for the interest of everything is all that it is his vision, his conception, his interpretation: at the window of his wide, quite sufficiently wide, consciousness we are seated, from that admirable position we 'assist'" (P, 37). Now not only does the artist sit before the window, but the subject—and importantly—the reader all sit indoors, all get inside those mind-houses not ours and view from there the human scene. In other words, we each share the artist's form of perceiving the world, his particular window-view which he constitutes or constructs in and by language. The "dead wall" is opaque; language punctures the wall with windows onto the world. We might therefore suggest that the subject of James's book is the artist, is artistic inspiration, is language, is perception, and is ourselves, our own perception. For James is explicit, over and over again, that we are no different from the teller of a story: "The teller of a story is primarily, none the less, the listener to it, the reader of it, too; and, having needed thus to make it out, distinctly, on the crabbed page of life, to disengage it from the rude human character and the more or less Gothic text in which it has been packed away, the very essence of his affair has been the imputing of intelligence" (P, 63). James complicates the whole matter of watchers watching when he has some of his characters watch others who are imaged in architectural similes. Such is the case with Ralph Touchett who, like his narrator, would image the complex Isabel Archer as a "Gothic cathedral": "The key of a beautiful edifice is thrust into my hand, and I'm told to walk in and admire. . . . The sentiment of these reflexions was very just; but it was not exactly true that Ralph Touchett had had a key put into his hand. His cousin was a very brilliant girl, who would take, as he said, a good deal of knowing, but she needed the knowing, and his attitude with regard to her, though it was contemplative and critical, was not judicial. He surveyed the edifice from the outside and admired it greatly; he looked in at the windows and received an impression of proportions equally fair. But he felt that he saw it only by glimpses and that he had continue

not yet stood under the roof. The door was fastened, and though he had keys in his pocket he had a conviction that none of them would fit" (II, 87).

Life goes on behind faces, life we never see. The face is in some sense dead if we think of it as the wall-façade through which the energy-spirit must pass. Recall, for instance, Marcel's mother sending her love-spirit out her smile-window: "she sent out to me . . . a love which stopped only where there was no longer any material substance to support it on the surface of her impassioned gaze which she tried to thrust forward to the advanced post of her lips, in a smile which seemed to be kissing me, in the framework and beneath the canopy of the more discreet smile of the arched window illuminated by the sun" (II, 822). The "apertures," James realizes, are the most apparent zones for the transmission of life-energy, eyes for perception.

9. For a brief mention of this debt to Howells, see F. W. Dupee, Henry James (New York, 1956), pp. 220-221.

10. James describes at length his difficulties with technique in The Spoils , how to present the spoils themselves since they "are not directly articulate." See P, 123-126, in which he also describes his conception of Fleda Vetch as the way out of his dilemma.

11. For great help with this and other passages in James, I wish to thank Leonard Michaels.

12. Max Beerbohm, The Guerdon (London, 1925), p. 4. Throughout the entire parody, Beerbohm exaggerates the architectural devices James uses. Not only does the entire action take place within a mysterious palace room in which the "seated personage" waits to greet Stamfordham, but ideas, questions, thoughts in general are expressed in terms of those architectural images so abundant in James's later novels. Beerbohm writes of a hope that "fairly burst from him [Stamfordham] and blossomed, this bud, as the royal eye had poised—had from its slow flight around the mouldings of the florid Hanoverian ceiling, positively swooped—on the fat scarlet book" continue

(5). Beerbohm refers, likewise, to the "prominent, the virtuous yet so lacklustre family eye of the seated reader" (5) as if he knows that the reader is also seated inside along with characters and authors. Of furnishings, James himself writes of other artists: "All a matter of his own, in a word, for each seer of visions, the particular tone of the medium in which each vision, each clustered group of persons and places and objects, is bathed. Just how, accordingly, does the light of the world, the projected, painted, peopled, poetized, realized world, the furnished and fitted world into which we are beguiled for the holiday excursion . . . of the . . . voyaging mind-just how does this strike us as different in Fielding and in Richardson." See "The Lesson of Balzac 1905," in The House of Fiction (London, 1957), p. 70.

13. Henry James, "The Art of Fiction," in The House of Fiction , ed. Leon Edel (London, 1957), p. 44. James must also freeze characters out of life into objects that he might "treat" them rather than interact with them. The conversion is thus another safety device; di-stance may create the space for exchange of energy or it may be seized as territory and used to protect one from feeling the impact of another's presence.

14. While Mrs. Lowder is described as large, her friends Milly and Susan Shepherd are something else: "There was a certain implication that they were spacious because they were empty. Mrs. Lowder, by a different law, was spacious because she was full" (XIX, 168). Likewise, some rooms become too small for certain characters, the implication being that their largeness of mind or imagination violates or wars against the limitations of the world around them. Of Isabel Archer's imagination, James writes, "Her imagination was by habit ridiculously active; when the door was not open it jumped out of the window. She was not accustomed to keep it behind bolts" (II, 42). Lambert Strether has similar problems with confinement. In The Ambassadors James writes of Strether after his first reunion with Waymarsh, "On leaving him [Waymarsh] he [Strether] went straight to his own room, but with the prompt effect of feeling the compass of that chamber resented by his condition. There he enjoyed at once the first conse- soft

quence of their reunion. A place was too small for him after it that had seemed large enough before" (XXI, 28).

15. James, "The Future of the Novel, 1899," in The House of Fiction , p. 51.

16. Ibid., p. 53.

15. James, "The Future of the Novel, 1899," in The House of Fiction , p. 51.

16. Ibid., p. 53.

17. Death for Milly is "turning her face to the wall"; simple Mrs. Stringham's "little life" was visited by "secret dreams that had fluttered their hour between its narrow walls without, for any great part, so much as mustering courage to look out of its rather dim windows" (XIX, 104). James also uses architectural puns throughout his fiction: "premises," "cold views,'' "arch of associations," represent just a few.

18. James, in fact, has Milly Theale's Venetian palace "speak" to her of its past: "Palazzo Leporelli held its history still in its great lap, even like a painted idol, a solemn puppet hung about with decorations. Hung about with pictures and relics, the rich Venetian past, the ineffaceable character, was here the presence revered and served: which brings us back to our truth of a moment ago-the fact that, more than ever, this October morning, awkward novice though she might be, Milly moved slowly to and fro as the priestess of the worship. Certainly it came from the sweet taste of solitude, caught again and cherished for the hour; always a need of her nature, moreover, when things spoke to her with penetration. It was mostly in stillness they spoke to her best; amid voices she lost the sense" (XX, 135). Similarly, Milly's Doctor's house "put on for her a look of custom and use, squared itself solidly round her as with promises and certainties" (XIX, 237).

19. See Raymond Gill, Happy Rural Seat (New Haven, 1972). Gill's emphasis is on James's country houses as "symbols of community," fusing the "historical and the personal," the "traditional and the visionary" (pp. 14-16, 25). Gill unfortunately neglects to relate James's architectural symbols to his concept of mind and of fictional structure. This oversight deprives Gill's work of the suggestive richness his topic should have yielded him.

20. Henry James, "Abbeys and Castles," in The Art of Travel , ed. M. D. Zabel (New York, 1958), pp. 150-151. break

21. James writes that the beauty in architecture is "participatory and relative"; see, for instance, his wonderful descriptions of architectural monuments in his travel literature. Of Wells Cathedral James writes:

"It has often seemed to me in England that the purest enjoyment of architecture was to be had among the ruins of great buildings. In the perfect building one is rarely sure that the impression is simply architectural: it is more or less pictorial and romantic; it depends partly upon association and partly upon various accessories and details which, however they may be wrought into harmony with the architectural idea, are not a part of its essence and spirit. But in so far as beauty of structure is beauty of line and curve, balance and harmony of masses and dimensions, I have seldom relished it as deeply as on the grassy nave of some crumbling church, before lonely columns and empty windows where the wild flowers were a cornice and the sailing clouds a roof. The arts certainly hang together in what they do for us. These hoary relics of Glastonbury reminded me in their broken eloquence of one of the other great ruins of the world—the Last Supper of Leonardo. A beautiful shadow, in each case, is all that remains; but that shadow is the 'soul of the artist'" ( The Art of Travel , pp. 120-121). And of St. Mark's: "Still, it is almost a spiritual function—or, at the very worst, an amorous one—to feed one's eyes on the moulten colour that drops from the hollow vaults and thickens the air with its richness. It is all so quiet and sad and faded and yet it is all so brilliant and living. The strange figures in the mosaic pictures, bending with the curve of niche and vault, stare down through the glowing dimness; the burnished gold that stands behind them catches the light on its little uneven cubes. St. Mark's owes nothing of its character to the beauty of proportion or perspective; there is nothing grandly balanced or far-arching; there are no long lines nor triumphs of the perpendicular. The church arches indeed, but arches like a dusky cavern. Beauty of surface, of tone, of detail, of things near enough to touch and kneel upon and lean against—it is from this the effect proceeds. In this sort of beauty the place is incredibly rich, and you may go there every day and find afresh some lurking pictorial nook" (Ibid., p. 394). break

James's Notebooks are also replete with architectural descriptions and details (which, interestingly, suggest those similar descriptions which fill the notebooks and journals of G. M. Hopkins). See especially pp. 325-335. James, however, unlike Hopkins, tends to describe monuments in their settings, including mention of city noise and people.

"Here I come suddenly, this same charming day (Aug. 24) on delightfully placed old St. Dunstan's in the East (the mate of which, St. D. in West, Fleet St., I tried to get into, under the image of Queen Elizabeth an hour ago). I never chanced upon this one before—just out of Eastcheap, on the way to the Tower, and beyond (south) the little St. Margaret Pattens. High 'fine' Gothic tower and spire, and built as it is on the steep hill down to the river the little old disused and voided churchyard is raised on deep southward substructions under the south wall of the church and employed as a small sitting-place for the specimens of the grimy public— such infinitely miserable specimens—who are dozing and gnawing bones (2 tramps under the south wall doing that in it now). The noise of drays from riverward, the clang of wheels, etc., harsh in the enclosed, built-in space; but the tall (3 or 4) thin trees (a lime and a locust?) make a green shade—and the clock in the tower, or at least the bell, gives out an immense deep note (2o'ck.). Come back of course—get in. All these city churches have their hours on notices at doors. Make record of these" (VII, 329).

" September 21st, 1909. Just back from Overstrand—beautiful September day. Turned in to St. Bride's Fleet St.—great ample handsome empty 'Palladian' church, mercilessly modernized, brightened, decorated, painted and gilded—but so still in the roaring City—with the rumeur outside all softened and faint—so respectable, so bourgeois—such a denial of any cognizance of passions, remorses, compassions, appeals—anything but mildest contritions and most decorous prostrations. But big and square and clear and reverend—in all its simplicity and with no altar to speak—neither book nor bell nor cross nor candle. It is one of Wren's churches and the little baptismal font was saved from the Fire. Immense and massive tower to great height, with superpositions of stages in spire atop— diminuendo —like a tower of cards" (VIII, 333). break

22. Perhaps in part because the Prefaces are so richly metaphorical James's critics have spent considerable time assessing the serviceability and adequacy of James's interart analogies. Surprisingly, however, little attention and virtually no thorough study has been made of James's architectural images, the result being that James's use of architecture has been slighted, dismissed as irrelevant, or else treated for its thematic or historical importance, never its aesthetic significance.

A. Holder-Barrell, for one, in The Development of Imagery and Its Functional Significance in Henry James's Novels (Switzerland, 1959), states that architectural images occur in only two novels, The Portrait of a Lady and The Golden Bowl. Likewise, R. L. Gale in The Caught Image: Figurative Language in the Fiction of Henry James (Chapel Hill, 1964), comments that "images drawn from architecture, like those from dancing," are "ornamental rather than vital to the fiction" (p. 145). Gale also claims that in the fiction ''James fails completely to group his caryatids, cornices, keystones, and lozenges in any functional manner, all of which is surprising in the light of the fact that in his prefaces he images himself repeatedly as a master-builder of fine houses of fiction" (p. 241). Joseph A. Ward, in The Search for Form: Studies in the Structure of James's Fiction (Chapel Hill, 1967), does discuss the importance of James's "structures," but he neglects to speak specifically of the architectural analogues or to relate the prefaces to the internal images of the fiction (see pp. 40-44 and 147-154). R. Gill, whose entire book is devoted to country houses ( Happy Rural Seat [New Haven, 1972]), and who takes special care to document every house that James built, sadly limits the analogue by never seeing that it refers equally to minds and fictional structures; his intent is so sociological that he makes absolutist remarks about character while ignoring all else that James attempts. L. B. Holland, in The Expense of Vision: Essays on the Craft of Henry James (Princeton, 1964), claims that the architectural analogues in the prefaces are "inadequate" to describe the fiction (pp. 4-5), especially the analogue in The Portrait . But unlike most critics, Holland does concede that the metaphors are "relevant" to the Portrait "if for no other reason than that they place the author inside continue

his finished dwelling and call into question his edifice by alluding to its 'dead wall'" (p. 4). Elsewhere Holland feels that James opposes the metaphor of architecture to the action of the novel or story (p. 5). It seems to me that James's theory of the "house of fiction" suggests a structure which incorporates action rather than quarrels with it. James explicitly mentions architecture as able to accommodate time and duration of action in his essay on Balzac ("The Lesson of Balzac, 1905,'' pp. 82-83), and in his preface to The Wings of the Dove ; in the latter, James describes the culmination of the dramatic action as taking place in Kate's "consciousness" and—the parallel is important—in Milly's "hired palace," both of which he renders in architectural terms. James writes:

"It is in Kate's consciousness that at the stage in question the drama is brought to a head, and the occasion on which, in the splendid saloon of poor Milly's hired palace, she takes the measure of her friend's festal evening, squares itself to the same synthetic firmness as the compact constructionable block inserted by the scene at Lancaster Gate" (p. 301).

23. See V. Hopkins Winner, Henry James and the Visual Arts (Virginia, 1970), especially pp. 177-178. Winner argues that painting and tapestry are "incompatible" with architecture.

24. "The Future of the Novel," in The House of Fiction , p. 51.

25. Claudio Guillén, Literature as System (Princeton, 1971), p. 289. "'Chi mira una pittura, vede certa intersegazione d'una piramide': Alberti imagined that Euclid's visual pyramid, the apex of which is the observer's eye, was intersected by a flat plane, transparent as if made of glass ('non altrimenti, che se essa fosse di vetro tralucente'). This flat section became the surface of the painting, which no longer acted as such, but rather as an opening, an open window ('una finestra aperta') on the contents of the visual pyramid. Thus the purpose of painting could be defined as the representation of things seen ('rappresentare cose vedute'), a definition which Alberti the humanist associated with the myth of Narcissus: 'che dirai tu essere dipingere altra cosa che simile abbracciare con arte, quella ivi superficie del fonte?'" break

26. Henry James, Transatlantic Sketches (Boston, 1875), p. 78.

1. John Ruskin, The Seven Lamps of Architecture, Works , VIII, 224.

2. For an enlightening discussion of interdisciplinary studies, directions, and methodological pitfalls, see New Literary History: A Journal of Theory and Interpretation (September 1972), especially essays by J. Seznec and A. Fowler. For a discussion of historical methodology and Hegel, see E. H. Gombrich, In Search of Cultural History (Oxford, 1969), especially pp. 32-50. Gombrich specifically addresses the issue of Hegelian Zeitgeist (much as Seznec addresses l'air de famille ): "Hegel," Gombrich writes, "saw all periods as movements since they were embodiments of the moving spirit" (p. 35); Gombrich feels that much art history and interdisciplinary history presumes an Hegelian metaphysics, even when metaphysics per se is replaced by a kind of "stylistic formalism" such as that advanced by Heinrich Wölfflin in Renaissance and Baroque (1888). Gombrich objects to Hegel's assertion that a nation's "religion, constitution, morality, law, customs, science, art, and technology" are all "concrete manifestations of the national Spirit'' (p. 10); such belief Gombrich feels is reductive, a false ordering of events and a violation of any belief in the individual. Gombrich indicts historians and scholars who feel "consciously or unconsciously, that if they let go of the magnet (the 'essence,' 'Spirit,' common 'core') that created the pattern, the atoms of past cultures would again fall back into random dustheaps." The questions I am asking of literature and architecture represent an attempt to avoid any assumption of "magnets"; and Gombrich, both personally and through his scholarship, has guided me in the formulation of many of my questions. For this direction, I am indebted and thankful.

While New Literary History looks mainly at interdisciplinary studies in the 1960s and early 1970s, J. Hagstrum in The Sister Arts (Chicago, 1958) summarizes interdisciplinary studies to the late 1950s, mentioning as he does so the methodological principles and mistakes of earlier studies. See espe- soft

cially his introduction. One of the frequent targets of criticism most recently has been M. Praz, Mnemosyne: The Parallel between Literature and the Visual Arts (Princeton, 1969), a work which unfortunately does assume a common spirit of the age. Ironically for us, in terms of the concerns of this book, Praz equates memory (his work is a tribute to the Goddess Mnemosyne) with art in a general sense; qualified, "aesthetic memory" (unlike "practical memory") is characterized "by its incapacity to be realized on the level of the senses," so becoming the unifier of the arts and the rationale for Praz's critical view. For an intelligent critical essay on Praz's study (which, incidentally, is mentioned throughout the issue cited of New Literary History ) see B. Richards, Essays in Criticism , 21 (1971), 325.

3. The question regarding the selection of art-models is one which avoids the belief that separate aspects of culture reflect and proceed from one privileged center.

4. For discussions of hypotheses, proofs, observation, and theory, see the works of K. R. Popper, especially Conjectures and Refutations (London, 1963) and The Logic of Scientific Discovery (New York, 1961). Regarding theories, Popper writes, "Theories are our own inventions, our own ideas; they are not forced upon us, but are our self-made instruments of thought: this has been clearly seen by the idealist. But some of these theories of ours can clash with reality; and when they do, we know that there is a reality; that there is something to remind us of the fact that our ideas may be mistaken. And this is why the realist is right" ( Conjectures and Refutations , p. 117). Popper, to whom Gombrich acknowledges indebtedness in Art and Illusion: A Study in the Psychology of Pictorial Representation (New York, 1961), advances the notion of "critical rationalism" in which one attempts never to "prove positively" (since one always can) a theory but to ''test" it by an attempt "to falsify it, or to refute it" ( Conjectures and Refutations , p. 36). I personally have been attempting not to prove a theory but to document and record the occurrence of a theory, or various theories as stated by others and to discuss what I feel to be the implications of these theories. break

5. Vitruvius, The Ten Books on Architecture , trans. M. H. Morgan (New York, 1960).

6. Ibid., p. 14.

5. Vitruvius, The Ten Books on Architecture , trans. M. H. Morgan (New York, 1960).

6. Ibid., p. 14.

7. Leone Battista Alberti, Ten Books on Architecture , trans. J. Leoni (London, 1965).

8. Ibid., p. xi.

9. Ibid., p. 197.

7. Leone Battista Alberti, Ten Books on Architecture , trans. J. Leoni (London, 1965).

8. Ibid., p. xi.

9. Ibid., p. 197.

7. Leone Battista Alberti, Ten Books on Architecture , trans. J. Leoni (London, 1965).

8. Ibid., p. xi.

9. Ibid., p. 197.

10. The Builder's Magazine (London, 1774).

11. Wightwick, "The Principles and Practice of Architectural Design" (Essay 7, 1850), from Detached Essays of the Architectural Publication Society (London, 1853), p. 37.

12. Examples of Vitruvius' indebtedness to the rhetorical traditional are such terms and applied concepts as "Arrangement (in Greek )," "Order (in Greek )," ''Eurythmy," and "Propriety." See Book I, chapter 2, "The Fundamental Principles of Architecture," in The Ten Books on Architecture , pp. 13-16.

13. For an unusual and interesting discussion of Ben Jonson and Vitruvius and Alberti, see Per Palme, "Ut Architectura Poesis," in Idea and Form , ed. N. G. Sandblad, Acta Universitatis Upsaliensis, Figura Nova Series, I (Uppsala, 1959), 95-107.

14. George Herbert, The Works of George Herbert , ed. F. E. Hutchinson (Oxford, 1941). See especially "Church-lock and key," "The Church-floore," "The Windows," "Man," and "Sion."

15. Ibid., p. 67.

16. Ibid., p. 90.

14. George Herbert, The Works of George Herbert , ed. F. E. Hutchinson (Oxford, 1941). See especially "Church-lock and key," "The Church-floore," "The Windows," "Man," and "Sion."

15. Ibid., p. 67.

16. Ibid., p. 90.

14. George Herbert, The Works of George Herbert , ed. F. E. Hutchinson (Oxford, 1941). See especially "Church-lock and key," "The Church-floore," "The Windows," "Man," and "Sion."

15. Ibid., p. 67.

16. Ibid., p. 90.

17. Ralph Waldo Emerson and Henry David Thoreau both refer to organic architecture and draw analogies between body/architecture and literature. Emerson writes, for example, "Fitness is so separable an accompaniment of beauty that it has been taken for it. The most perfect form to answer an end, is so far beautiful. In the mind of an artist, could we enter there, we continue

should see the sufficient reason for the last flourish and tendril of his work, just as every tint and spine in the sea-shell pre-exists, in the secreting organs of the fish. We feel, in seeing a noble building, which rhymes well, as we do in hearing a perfect song, that it is spiritually organic, that is, had a necessity in nature, for being" ("Thoughts on Art," Dial , January 1841, as reprinted in The Uncollected Writings by R. W. Emerson , ed. C. C. Bigelow, New York, 1912, p. 47). Emerson also writes in 1844, that "it is not metres, but a metre-making arrangement that makes a poem,-a thought so passionate and alive that like the spirit of a plant or an animal it has an architecture of its own, and adorns nature with a new thing" ( Works , III [New York, 1883], 15).

Thoreau's values are similar: "What of architectural beauty I now see, I know has gradually grown from within outward, out of the necessities and character of the indweller, who is the only builder,-out of some unconscious truthfulness, and nobleness, without ever a thought for the appearance; and whatever additional beauty of this kind is destined to be produced will be preceded by a like unconscious beauty of life" ( Writings of Henry David Thoreau , II [Boston, 1906], 134).

18. Walter Pater, "Emerald Uthwart," in Imaginary Portraits , ed. E. J. Brzenk (London, 1964), p. 58.

19. See Aristotle, De Anima , 429a, in which he refers to the "place of ideas" ( topos eidon ) when he is discussing the passive and active aspects of the mind. For a discussion of visualization in Plato and Aristotle, see W. Trimpi, "The Ancient Hypothesis of Fiction: An Essay on the Origins of Literary Theory," in Traditio , 27 (September 1971). Trimpi writes, "The whole internal world of the imagination is viewed of necessity as one of arbitrarily imposed delimitations of space, which recalls Plato's Timaeus (51-52) and looks forward to the art of memory in which images are assigned to geometrically conceived areas. The process of giving imaginary magnitudes to things we think about is certainly pre-requisite to imagining a sequence of actions in time. In the Poetics (chapter 7) continue

temporal magnitude is compared to the spatial magnitude of animate creatures; the duration of dramatic action is a function of the memory ('such as can be easily remembered as a whole') as the magnitude of a beautiful creature is a function of vision. Time is to space as memory is to visual image."

20. I am grateful to Professor Gombrich for suggesting that I look at these passages. Ovid's "Palace of the Sun," in its carvings "more beautiful than the material," reconstitutes, in a sense, the history of the world and images the gods along with the signs of the zodiac and representation of the elements. "The palace of the Sun stood high on lofty columns, bright with glittering gold and bronze that shone like fire. Gleaming ivory crowned the gables above; the double folding-doors were radiant with burnished silver. And the workmanship was more beautiful than the material. For upon the doors Mulciber had carved in relief the waters that enfold the central earth, the circle of the lands and the sky that overhangs the lands. The sea holds the dark-hued gods: tuneful Triton, changeful Proteus, and Aegaeon, his strong arms thrown over a pair of huge whales; Doris and her daughters, some of whom are shown swimming through the water, some sitting on a rock drying their green hair, and some riding on fishes. . . . Above these scenes was placed a representation of the shining sky, six signs of the zodiac on the right hand doors, and six signs on the left" (Ovid, Metamorphoses , Bk. II, p. 61, trans. F. J. Miller, Cambridge, Mass., 1951). The palace is in a sense an architectural microcosm and suggests the world as enclosed by and made known to the human mind; as such, it becomes a locus classicus for subsequent representations, an important instance being Tennyson's "Palace of Art," a structure standing for the mind-house of the soul and enclosing not only representations of the macro-world but also representations of artistic renderings of that world: continue

Full of great rooms and small the palace stood,
      All various, each a perfect whole
From living Nature, fit for every mood
      And change of my still soul.

Nor these alone; but every legend fair
      Which the supreme Caucasian mind
Carved out of Nature for itself was there,
      Not less than life design'd.

For Tennyson, guilt, in fact political and social guilt, as well as what we think of as subconscious fears, also dwell in the mind-palace and drive the soul out, back to what we may think of as a Romantic "cottage in the vale."

But in dark corners of her palace stood
      Uncertain shapes; and unawares
On white-eyed phantasms weeping tears of blood,
      And horrible nightmares. . . .

Tennyson's palace also draws upon Apuleius' "Palace of Psyche," which, like Tennyson's, can only be known and judged by entering it, and which, also like Tennyson's, bears the register of error once moral transgression occurs within it. The richness of Psyche's palace is made manifold but the source is unknown; we recognize that it is too grand and that Psyche's interest in it and curiosity about its builder are in some way deficient. "For the embossings above were of Citron and Ivory, propped and undermined with pillars of gold, the walls covered and seeled with silver, divers sorts of beasts were graven and carved, that seemed to encounter with such as entered in. . . . Every part and angle of the house was so well adorned, that by reason of the pretious stones and inestimable treasure there, it glittered and shone in such sort, that the chambers, porches, and doores gave light as it had been the Sunne. Neither otherwise did the other treasure of the house disagree into so great a majesty, that verily it seemed in every point an heavenly continue

Palace, fabricate and built for Jupiter himself" ("The Most Pleasant and Delectable Tale of the Marriage of Cupid and Psyche," 1566, trans. W. Adlington, London, 1887).

21. See Augustine, Confessions , especially III, iv and X, viii. See also pp. 31-34. See Thomas Aquinas, In Aristotelis libros de sensu et sensato, de memoria et reminiscentia commentarius, ed. R. M. Spiazzi (Turin and Rome, 1949), especially pp. 85 ff., and p. 107. (For Aquinas, "places" as well as "images" of the artificial memory figure as the "sensible furniture" of a mind, so making the mind an even larger architectural structure which houses or may house diverse place-structures which are useful for the art of memory.) See John Locke, An Essay Concerning Human Understanding , ed. A. C. Fraser (Oxford, 1894), especially I, 32. For Locke, minds contain ideas, much as a room contains furniture; ideas and knowledge are quite literally inside the mind. Likewise, Locke images the "knowledge" of Huygenius and Newton as "lasting monuments,'' built by these "master-builders" who produce outward their "mighty designs" (I, 14). See G. W. F. Hegel, The Phenomenology of Mind , trans. J. B. Baillie (New York, 1967), especially pp. 338-342. Here Hegel, in a chapter entitled "Observation of the Relation of Self-Consciousness to Its Immediate Actuality—Physiognomy and Phrenology," speaks of "inner" and "outer," distinguishing language as an outer expression of the inner; "Language and labour are outer expressions in which the individual no longer retains possession of himself per se, but lets the inner get right outside him, and surrenders it to something else. For that reason we might just as truly say that these outer expressions express the inner too much as that they do so too little: too much—because the inner itself breaks out in them, and there remains no opposition between them and it; they not merely give an expression of the inner, they give the inner itself directly and immediately: too little—because in speech and action the inner turns itself into something else, into an other, and thereby puts itself at the mercy of the element of change, which transforms the spoken word and the accomplished act, and makes something else out of them than they are in and for themselves as actions of a particular determinate individual" continue

(p. 340). Among the many things we may see in this passage is Pater's indebtedness to Hegel for his theory of language. See Chapter I, above, on Walter Pater's "literary architecture."

For a more detailed discussion of Freud's architectural analogues, see section three of this chapter below. Of Donald Davie's poems, I especially think of the closing of "Dublin Georgian":

The author of the genial comedies
From which this pair plucked fruit,
The edible stucco of their shared repute,
Has made no entrance; and yet there he is,
A brow that's broader than the marble mantel
There in the wall
Which thin heads nod in front of. Broad as well
Behind the brow, the soul. Broadness of soul—
What an inelegant and Russian notion!
It's more than Orrery could cater for.
His walls distend, the cornice is in motion . . .
Oliver Goldsmith! Samson heaves the floor.
                            (Donald Davie,  Collected Poems,
                                     1950-1970 , London, 1972)

See W. R. Bion, Learning from Experience (New York, 1962) and Second Thoughts (London, 1957); also see Melanie Klein, Contributions to Psycho-Analysis, 1921-1945 (London, 1948), especially pp. 140-151 and 303, as well as Narrative of a Child Analysis (London and New York, 1961), p. 31. See Richard Wollheim, "The Mind and the Mind's Image of Itself," in On Art and the Mind (London, 1973), especially pp. 41-53. Wollheim devotes considerable time to discussing a "spatial" conception of the mind: "For the mind to be conceived of as spatial, it is required, I suggest, either that we should have some specific view about mental states, assigning to them an extended or quasi-extended character; or else that we should have some specific view about the relation in which objects of mental states stand to the mind, assigning to this a positional character. Here we have something like a disjunctive criterion for spatiality" (p. 46). Wollheim proceeds to fulfill the two conditions, and in so doing, he refers not only to Freud's conception of a thought which may forcefully enter continue

the mind, Freud's "alien guest," but he also cites Henry James and William Butler Yeats to augment clinical or psychoanalytical arguments.

22. See Plato, The Republic , Book III, trans. P. Shorey (London, 1953) as reprinted in The Collected Dialogues of Plato , ed. E. Hamilton and H. Cairns (Princeton, 1961), pp. 747-757. The cave image in fact serves as an analogue for still another architectural image, the prison: "This image [the cave] then, dear Glaucon, we must apply as a whole to all that has been said, likening the region revealed through sight to the habitation of the prison, and the light of the fire in it to the power of the sun. And if you assume that the ascent and the contemplation of the things above is the soul's ascension to the intelligible region, you will not miss my surmise, since that is what you desire to hear" (p. 749).

23. Andrew Marvell, "Upon Appleton House, to my Lord Fairfax," The Poems and Letters of Andrew Marvell , I, ed. H. M. Margoliouth (Oxford, 1971). Stanza LXXXI offers still another example of Marvell's play with the poet/architect analogue without the mind analogue:

Oh what a Pleasure 'tis to hedge
My Temples here with heavy sedge;
Abandoning my lazy Side,
Stretcht as a Band unto the Tide;
Or to suspend my sliding Foot
On the Osiers undermined Root,
And in its Branches tough to hang,
While at my Lines the Fishes twang!

24. Samuel Beckett, Murphy (New York, 1957), pp. 107-113.

25. Ibid., p. 181. See also his comparison between Mercyseat and church architecture in the same chapter.

24. Samuel Beckett, Murphy (New York, 1957), pp. 107-113.

25. Ibid., p. 181. See also his comparison between Mercyseat and church architecture in the same chapter.

26. Throughout Beckett's work there is an emphasis on descriptions of place, especially architecture and topography. In 1955, with The Unnamable , we find Beckett moving toward a narrative I who comes closer and closer to the personal voice of the author himself, but who nonetheless never arrives. Con- soft

sistent with the movement is the search still to describe the narrator's "abode": "It would help me," he writes toward the beginning, "since to me I must attribute a beginning, if I could relate it to that of my abode" (p. 296). The narrator moves from this quest for a beginning to a definition of himself in terms of language, and that definition significantly preserves the architectural analogue or reference: "I'm in words, made of words, others' words, what others, the place too, the air, the walls, the floor, the ceiling, all words, the whole world is here with me, I'm the air, the walls, the walled-in one, everything yields, opens, ebbs, flows" (p. 386). His despair does not cease, however: ''Help, help, if I could only describe this place, I who am so good at describing places, walls, ceilings, floors, they are my speciality, doors, windows, what haven't I imagined in the way of windows in the course of my career, some opened on the sea, all you could see was sea and sky, if I could put myself in a room, that would be the end of the wordy-gurdy, even doorless, even windowless, nothing but the four surfaces, the six surfaces, if I could shut myself up, it would be a mine, it could be black dark . . . I'd be home, I'd say what it's like, in my home, instead of any old thing, this place, if I could describe this place, portray it, I've tried, I feel no place, no place round me, there's no end to me" (p. 399). The novel ends, "perhaps they have carried me to the threshold of my story, before the door that opens on my story, that would surprise me, if it opens, it will be I, it will be the silence, where I am, I don't know, I'll never know, in the silence you don't know, you must go on, I can't go on, I'll go on" (p. 414). By 1969, it seems that Beckett has arrived at a refuge of sorts, and at silence, although it is still a written silence of words: Lessness (London, 1970) opens with the analogue for mind and for the condition of being still architectural. "Ruins true refuge long last towards which so many false time out of mind. All sides endlessness earth sky as one no sound no stir. Grey face two pale blue little body heart beating only upright. Blacked out fallen open four walls over backwards true refuge issueless.

"Scattered ruins same grey as the sand ash grey true refuge. Four square all light sheer white blank planes all gone from continue

mind. Never was but grey air timeless no sound figment the passing light. No sound no stir ash grey sky mirrored earth mirrored sky. Never but this changelessness dream the passing hour" (pp. 7-8). It seems that the narrator/author has found a place that is no place, has conflated body/place with surrounding place, body perception with mind/place, and has found "no sound," the "silence" so desired in The Unnamable. Lessness seems to describe "becoming less," the movement toward that final silence, an "almost" death but for words. The final two paragraphs are variations (as is the whole work) on basic word combinations, but they seem to achieve something in addition to the curse of despair. The ''novel" closes, "Legs a single block arms fast to sides little body face to endlessness. True refuge long last issueless scattered down four walls over backwards no sound. Blank planes sheer white eye calm long last all gone from mind. He will curse God again as in the blessed days face to the open sky the passing deluge. Face to calm eye touch close all calm all white all gone from mind.

"Little body little block heart beating ash grey only upright. Little body ash grey locked rigid heart beating face to endlessness. Little body little block genitals overrun arse a single block grey crack overrun. Figment dawn dispeller of figments and the other called dusk" (pp. 20-21).

27. Civil Engineer and Architect's Journal , II (London, July 1839), 365.

28. Wightwick, "The Principles and Practice of Architectural Design" (Essay 7, 1850), in Detached Essays of the Architectural Publication Society (London, 1853), pp. 1-2.

29. The relationship between mind and architecture in architectural theory prior to the mid-eighteenth century was what we might call a product relationship: mind produces building, but building does not necessarily reflect or express mind. We can see this clearly in Alberti's treatise; the relationship between mind and architecture is in this sense normative. Alberti writes, "In treating of which [architecture in ten books] we shall observe this Method: We consider that an Edifice is a Kind of Body consisting, like all other Bodies, of continue

Design and of Matter; the first is produced by the Thought, the other by Nature; so that the one is to be provided by the Application and Contrivance of the Mind, and the other by due Preparation and Choice" ("The Preface," Ten Books on Architecture , London, 1965, p. xi).

It is interesting to notice, with regard to Ruskin and his attitude toward expressiveness in architecture, that his lines in his drawings are also expressive in terms of traditional classifications of drawing technique. Ruskin's interest in Gothic architecture, then, is of a piece with his more general artistic disposition and taste.

30. Ruskin, "The Nature of the Gothic," The Stones of Venice, Works , X, 183. While this passage demonstrates Ruskin's value system in selecting the Gothic style above all others, it becomes an important criterion for evaluation of other architectural styles in his subsequent writings.

31. Civil Engineer and Architect's Journal , II, 251.

32. Ruskin, "The Poetry of Architecture," Works , I, 17.

33. Robert Browning, Poems of Robert Browning , ed. D. Smalley (Boston, 1956), p. 450.

34. Ibid., p. 451.

33. Robert Browning, Poems of Robert Browning , ed. D. Smalley (Boston, 1956), p. 450.

34. Ibid., p. 451.

35. Frances A. Yates, The Art of Memory (Harmondsworth, Middlesex, 1966).

36. See especially my chapters on Pater and Proust above.

37. Quintilian, Institutio oratoria (Loeb edition), trans. H. E. Butler, XI, ii, 17-22. I have slightly modified this translation. See also Cicero, De oratore (Loeb edition), trans. E. W. Sutton and H. Rackham, II, lxxxvi, 355-lxxxviii, 360.

38. Augustine, Confessions , trans. R. S. Pine-Coffin (Harmondsworth, Middlesex, 1961). See also my chapter on Pater above, especially section two.

39. Locke, An Essay , II, 62.

40. Sigmund Freud, Civilization and Its Discontents , trans. Joan Riviere (London, 1957), pp. 15-20. Freud uses as his continue

source book The Cambridge Ancient History , vol. VII (1928), "The Founding of Rome" by Hugh Last. Freud's model is ultimately inadequate to his purpose—recording the "idiosyncrasies of mental life." The difficulty Freud encounters with the analogue appears to be due to his own limitation of vision: his imagined city is built of solid and therefore opaque structures. Freud did not see what possibilities the analogy would have were he to figure these edifices as transparent. In fact, had he so extended the analogue, his description of the life of the mind might have been less fixed, more spacious and fluid-fertile. I think it important, however, that we recognize in Freud the search for an analogue and the attempt to use existing traditions to describe what to Freud were new observations of mental phenomena.

41. What Miss Yates does not consider is whether these memory systems presume something about the nature of minds: while she does note, for instance, that in the Ad Herennium there exists in the architecture-memory analogue a wonderful sense of space, depth, lighting, of images carved on loci , and of places being neither too large nor too small, she never suggests that such a description of an artificial memory device involves a concept of the memory and of the mind which shares the qualities of the architectural analogue. See pp. 17-22 in The Art of Memory .

42. R. Wollheim, On Art and the Mind (London, 1973), pp. 31-54.

43. Ibid., pp. 35-36.

42. R. Wollheim, On Art and the Mind (London, 1973), pp. 31-54.

43. Ibid., pp. 35-36.

44. Quintilian, XI, ii, 20-22.

45. For an excellent look at the Greek Revival, see J. Mordaunt Crook, The Greek Revival (London, 1972).

46. The seminal work on the Gothic Revival is still Lord Kenneth Clark's The Gothic Revival (London, 1928). Of all the most recent publications on this movement, I still find the most stimulating to be G. Hersey, High Victorian Gothic: A Study in Associationism (Maryland, 1972), and S. Muthesius, The High Victorian Movement in Architecture, 1850-1870 (London, 1972). break

47. See Sir Robert de Zouche Hall, A Bibliography on Vernacular Architecture (London, 1972).

48. The roots of this are in the archeological explorations and writings of Winckelmann in the mid-eighteenth century. I have found the best art historical study of historicism to be R. Rosenblum, Transformations in Late Eighteenth Century Art (Princeton, 1967), pp. 34 ff., 50 f., 75 f., 98, 107 ff. William Morris's work in reviving methods for dying fabric, for stained-glass windows, for printing, represents what was newly possible in the late nineteenth century, as does Ruskin's work on architectural building materials (honesty in construction) as in "The Lamp of Truth" in The Seven Lamps of Architecture .

49. Sir N. Pevsner, "Review," Art Quarterly , 35, no. 3 (1972): 315-318.

50. Ibid., p. 317.

49. Sir N. Pevsner, "Review," Art Quarterly , 35, no. 3 (1972): 315-318.

50. Ibid., p. 317.

51. Civil Engineer and Architect's Journal (July 1839), p. 249.

52. Ibid.

51. Civil Engineer and Architect's Journal (July 1839), p. 249.

52. Ibid.

53. Cf. T. Kentish, A Treatise on a Box of Instruments and the Slide Rule (London, 1839).

54. Cicero, De oratore III, xiv, 180-xlvii, 182.

55. Dionysius of Halicarnassus, On Literary Composition , trans. W. Rhys Roberts (London, 1910), p. 105. See also n. 29 in my notes to Proust above.

56. Dionysius, On Literary Composition , p. 211.

57. Quintilian, Institutio oratoria IX, iv, 25-28.

58. "Preface" to Book VII, 1-2.

59. See D. Hume, Essay XX from Essays, Moral, Political and Literary (London, 1742): "As the eye, in surveying a GOTHIC building, is distracted by the multiplicity of ornaments, and loses the whole by its minute attention to the parts; so the mind, in perusing a work overstocked with wit, is fatigued and disgusted with the constant endeavour to shine and surprize. This is the case where a writer overabounds in wit, even though continue

that wit, in itself, should be just and agreeable. But it commonly happens to such writers, that they seek for their favourite ornaments, even where the subject does not afford them; and by that means, have twenty insipid conceits for one thought which is really beautiful" (p. 81).

W. Hazlitt writes, "It is not pomp or pretension, but the adaptation of the expression to the idea that clenches a writer's meaning:—as it is not the size or glossiness of the materials, but their being fitted each to its place, that give strength to the arch: or as the pegs and nails are as necessary to the support of the building as the larger timbers, and more so than the mere shewy, unsubstantial ornaments."

See A. Schopenhauer, Parerga and Paralipomena , II, xxiii (1851), 151: "As in architecture an excess of decoration is to be avoided, so in the art of literature a writer must guard against all rhetorical finery, all useless amplification, and all superfluity of expression in general: in a word, he must strive after chastity of style." Schopenhauer also uses the analogue to speak of general construction on a larger scale: "Few write in the way in which an architect builds; who, before he sets to work, sketches out his plan, and thinks it over down to its smallest details. Nay, most people write only as though they were playing dominoes; and as in this game the pieces are arranged half by design, half by chance, so it is with the sequence and connection of their sentences. They only just have an idea of what the general shape of their work will be, and of the aim they set before themselves. Many are ignorant even of this, and write as the coral-insects build; period joins to period, and Lord knows what the author means" (p. 155).

60. Ruskin, "Elements of English Prosody," Works , XXXI, 327.

61. William Wordsworth, "Prospectus to The Recluse ," Poetical Works , V, ed. E. de Selincourt (London, 1940-58), 2. See also Wordsworth's letter to Sir J. Beaument on 3 June 1805 in Letters, The Early Years , p. 594. L. Stevenson has written on the subject, "The Unfinished Gothic Church," University of Toronto Quarterly , 22 (1963): 170-183. break

62. Erwin Panofsky, Gothic Architecture and Scholasticism (Cleveland and New York, 1957).

63. Quarterly Review , vol. 27, as quoted in The Civil Engineer and Architect's Journal , II (July 1839), 249.

64. Ibid., p. 251.

65. Ibid., p. 365.

63. Quarterly Review , vol. 27, as quoted in The Civil Engineer and Architect's Journal , II (July 1839), 249.

64. Ibid., p. 251.

65. Ibid., p. 365.

63. Quarterly Review , vol. 27, as quoted in The Civil Engineer and Architect's Journal , II (July 1839), 249.

64. Ibid., p. 251.

65. Ibid., p. 365.

66. See Sir J. Summerson, The Classical Language of Architecture (London, 1963); also P. Collins, "The Linguistic Analogy," in Changing Ideals in Modern Architecture (London, 1965).

67. The Civil Engineer , July 1839, p. 251.

68. Ruskin, "The Nature of the Gothic," p. 186.

69. The Civil Engineer , p. 250.

70. E. Newton, The Architect , I (1896), 55.

71. Ibid., p. 54. break

70. E. Newton, The Architect , I (1896), 55.

71. Ibid., p. 54. break