Definitions: "Call it what you want, but..."

After reading “The Definition of the word ‘Romantic,’” it would seem that we, as humans, have tried to give a title to the way in which we project what is “ideal.” In fact, in the very beginning of the entry, one phrase states, “nothing can be more erroneous than to trace the origin of romantic literature to one particular source.” How could we? How could we point to a singular source when there are so many instances in our world’s history where improvement is sought? The idea of the romantics, perhaps, is not to make the same mistake twice. They draw upon instances from the past, and predictions for the future, seeking to make a case for social welfare.

In an “Introduction by the Author,” from one of the newer editions of Ayn Rand’s “The Fountainhead,” Rand directly addresses Romanticism in the first few paragraphs. She calls it a conceptual school of art, claiming that it does not deal with the “trivia of the day.” It deals with “timeless, fundamental, universal problems, and values of human existence.” She goes on to say that “it does not record or photograph—it projects. It is not concerned with things as they are, but rather with the way things ought to be.” This is the definition of Romanticism that I’ve held in the back of my head for the past few years. I am no objectivist, but the definition she presents is one of the most thorough and clear I have ever encountered. What strikes me the most about her denotation is that it seems very much in line with the implications that the first few authors (in the reading) have expressed.

In her writings, Helen Maria Williams spends a great deal of time recording her observations of the Revolution. She takes subtle stabs at the Revolt’s processes, but never fully denounces its actions. She maintains her enthusiasm and defense for the Revolution, but finds herself quickly addressing the souring of the intentions of the Third Estate. Here, she makes her case: “When I said that the French Revolution began in Wisdom, I admitted that it came afterward in the hands of fools. But the foundation was laid in wisdom. I must entreat you to mark that circumstance; for if even the superstructure should fall, the foundation would remain (46).”

As the daughter of a residential contractor, I know a thing or two about foundations. I also have had my experience with sheetrock, cement, landscaping, land grading, and had the privilege of being a sufficient Bobcat operator by age 13. All of my construction qualifications aside, I find myself fighting Williams’ analogy. In Biblical literature, we are often familiar with the instance of building your foundation on rock or sand. Remember that the foundation itself is neither substance. The foundation is a different attachment. Any builder recognizes that in order to build a residence, you have to begin with a tabula rasa. This fits within the context of the often-forgotten land grading business. Graders mold and shape a landscape so that a specific foundation can be properly installed. Without this initial preparation, a foundation (which is just as carefully blue-printed as the building it will support) has no place.

If we call the foundation of the Revolution “wisdom,” how then can we define the space where the foundation was laid? Surely it had to be cleared so that the “wisdom” of the intentions of improvement could safely be stationed and the House of Revolt could be properly erected. What Williams suggests is that the structure within the main components of this House began to fail. Perhaps the windows were incorrectly installed and now they won’t open. Maybe the doors cannot shut. It could have lacked sufficient insulation or water protection and now the House sulks from rain damage. Williams, acknowledging the poor workmanship, still argues that once this House collapses (and it will), the “foundation will remain.” Will it? Or will we be able to see the foundation under the rubble that will cover it? When we ask that the foundation “remains,” do we mean to say that it is still “intact?” Probably. Little damage can be done to a solid foundation, even when its structure has fallen on top of it. To Williams, however, we must explain that we will not be left with our clean slate and our strong Wisdom-based foundation. We will be left with real remains, human and non-human. Our foundation, like our Wisdom, is quite unreachable when it is smothered by our failed edifices.

Although Williams seems to overlook this structural fault, she appears very much in line with our earlier definition of Romanticism. The entry “Definition of the word ‘Romantic’” also includes the phrase, “a scheme that is wild, impractical, and yet contains something that captivates the fancy.” Is Williams’ argument impractical in a literal sense? Yes. Does it “captivate the fancy” with its rhetoric and its clever implication that our foundation of Wisdom will save us from our misgivings? Yes. A good example of English writing with a twist of Romanticism? I think so.

Although I’ve only focused on one author in this first entry, I am finding that the others have such strong relations to this “ism” as well. So strong, in fact, that it’s a bit difficult to focus on even a few at once. It is, of course, funny that I spent my entire first entry on the very first author in the reading (although I’m sure I’m not the only one). However, I suspect she is first for a reason.

My favorite portion of her writings was not even of her own creation, although I think that it best exemplifies her taste of the Revolution. It seems she could not say it herself for fear of depleting her reputation as an enthusiast for the Revolt. It is from Shakespeare, from Measure for Measure:

--Man! proud man,
Drest in a little brief authority,
Plays such fantastic tricks before high heaven,
As make the angels weep.