Sri Aurobindo
Letters of Sri Aurobindo
Volume 3
(The first part of this letter is missing.)
(...) be able to boldly rise out of the soil to the skies where its efflorescence has, perforce, little kinship with the dark soil which gives it birth. I don’t know whether I express it with sufficient clarity, but I feel you will find little difficulty in divining what I mean and will come to my rescue, now that you have written something so clarifying (albeit a little perplexing too). You write of Mallarme and Valery. But Valery eureka! Him I had in mind: he is unintelligible to all but a very narrow coterie and even they say he is too intellectual and divorced from the life of emotions which makes his poetry admirable as a specimen of great workmanship but it will not live. Khagen Mitra does lay stress on emotional appeal and feelings which he says is more universal than the intellectual appeal. What about that?
Well but did they not say the same thing about Mallarme? And what of Blake? Contemporary opinion is a poor judge of what shall live or not live? The fact remains that the impressionist movement in poetry initiated by Mallarme has 
proved to be the most powerful stream in France and its influence is not confined to that country. The whole thing is that it is a mistake to erect a mental theory and try to force into its narrow mould the infinite variety of the processes of Nature. Shakespeare may have so much vital force as to recommend himself to large audience not so much for his poetry at first as for his dramatic vividness and power; it must be remembered that it was the German romantics two centuries later, who brought about the apotheosis of Shakespeare – before that he had a much more limited circle of admirers. Other great poets have started with a still more scanty recognition. Others have had a great popularity in their lifetime and sunk afterwards to much lower level of fame. What is important is to preserve the right of the poet to write for himself, that is to say, for the Spirit that moves him, not to demand from him that he should write down to the level of the general or satisfy even the established taste and standard of the critics or connoisseurs of his time. For that would mean the end or decay of poetry – it would perish of its own debasement. A poet must be free to use his wings even if they carry him above the comprehension of the public of the day or of the general run of critics or lead him into lonely places. This is all that matters.
Tolstoy’s logic is out of place. Nobody says that the value of the poet must be measured by the scantiness of his audience any more than it can be measured by the extent of his contemporary popularity. So there is no room for his reductio ad absurdum [a reduction to the absurd]. What is contended is that it cannot be measured by either. It must be measured by the power of his vision, of his speech, of his feeling, by his rendering of the world within or the world without or of any world to which he has access. It may be the outer world that he portrays like Homer and Chaucer or a vivid life-world like Sakespeare or an inmost world of experience like Blake or other mystic poets. The recognition of that power will come first from the few who recognise good poetry when they see 11 and from those who can enter into his world; afterwards it can spread to the larger number who can recognise good poetry when it is shown to them; finally, the still larger public may come in who learn to appreciate by a slow education, not by instinct and nature. There was a sound principle in the opinion always held in former times that it is time alone that can test the enduring power of a poet’s work, for contemporary opinion is not reliable.
There remains the case of the poets great or small or null who immediately command a general hearing. They have an element in them which catches at once the mind of the time: they are saying things which have a general appeal in a way that everybody can understand, in a language and rhythm that all can appreciate. As you say, there must be a vital element in his poetry which gets him his public. The question is, has he anything else and, again what is the value of this vital element? If he has nothing else or not much of any high value, his aureole will not endure. If he has something but not of the best and highest, he will sink in the eyes of posterity, but not set out of sight. If he has in him something of the very greatest and best, his fame will grow and grow as time goes on – some of the elements that caught him his contemporary public may fade and lose value, but the rest will shine with an increasing brightness. But even the vital and popular elements in their work may have different values – Shakespeare’s vitality has the same appeal now as then; Tennyson’s has got very much depreciated; Longfellow’s is now recognised for the easily current copper coin that it always was. You must remember that when I speak of the vital force in a poet as something necessary, I am not speaking of something that need be low or fitted only to catch the general mind, not fit to appeal to a higher judgment, but of something that can be very valuable – from the highest point of view. When Milton writes
Fall’n Cherub, to be weak is miserable
or describes the grandeur of the fallen archangel, there is a vital force there that is of the highest quality – so is that of Shakespeare; so is that of many pieces of Blake. This vital energy makes the soul stir within you. Nothing can be more high and sublime than the vital energy in Arjuna’s description of the virāt puruṣa [Cosmic Form] in the Gita.