and the present comprehensively conformistnsubjugation of our own heritagenof respect for the individual maynall equally stem from the 20thncentury’s self-congratulatory promotionn(as defined by an internationalncredit monopoly) of so-called ordinarynpeople, an orthodoxy of nobodyhoodnand nothingness that thrives on thensuppression not only of Napoleons ofnPoetry like Pound, but all ournJeffersons, Edisons, Einsteins, HenrynFords, and Bucky Fullers, past or toncome, as well.nWe all survive, average Joe, genius,nand plutocrat, on the collective heritagenof superior acts of intelligence,nperseverance, productivity, and unselfishness.nWe find it convenient to refernto this as human genius. But the establishmentnof our time seems to haventaught itself an ultimate barbarous lesson:nthat there is an infinitude of profitnin encouraging human corruptibility.nCall it Apocalypse? As soon as thenparasite has killed the host, the parasitenwill also die.nThe struggle to maintain any of thenglorious and useful traditions of humanngenius in an age that seems so bent onnenthusiastically denouncing, discrediting,nand abolishing them might wellnhave produced a certain sense of strain.nIn Pound’s case, this struggle led tonuncontrollable wrath combined withnpolitical delusion, not entirely unlikenDante’s, who stuck several of his worstnenemies in Hell as much out of spite asnanything, and whose worshipful attitudentoward the would-be conqueror ofnTuscany might have proved as mistakennas Pound’s toward Mussolini — hadnHenry of Luxembourg lived.nIt is worth noting, too, that Shakespeare’snevident and potentially deeplyncompromising involvement with Essexnand Southampton might not havenpassed for complete political wisdom,nhad anyone been in a position to thinknabout it in the intervening four centuries.n(Nobody was; only very recentnscholarship has been able to uncovernwhat the Bard kept hidden.) If Timonn(apparently abandoned as unproducible)nhad seen the light of day, onenmight well have wondered about itsnauthor’s soundness of mind.nAs for Pound’s grudge against hisnnative land, I note only that Melville’sngoing quietly mad in the East Lansingburgnpost office or Miss Dickinson’snagonizing secret little verses she stuffedninto her mattress or Whitman’s sellingnpencils, palsied and alone, in the streetsnof Camden or Hemingway’s puttingnthe muzzle in his mouth or Berryman’snwaving and flying off the bridgenabove a frozen Mississippi are notnevents to inspire confidence in ournnation’s abiding love for literary art.nNor is it easy to admire the state ofnmind that awards an absolute army ofnmediocrities for their half-century ofnconscious willful fellow-traveling whilenrefusing Pound any benefit of doubt innspite of his lifelong devotion to thenprinciples of the Founders, in spite ofnhis admission of error, in spite of anpunishment cumulatively worse thanndeath by firing squad.nSo once upon, well, a time, a littlenbefore the Age of the Hero finallyncame to an end, our then-greatest poetnsailed his silvery voice over the bluenand not-yet-polluted waters of LakenOntario in prophetic prayer for thenresumption, after civil war, of thenunique destiny of Americans:nthe gait they have of personsnwho nevernknew how it felt to standnin thenpresence of superiorsn. . . But unfortunately the prophecy,nunheeded, coincided with the beginningnof the systematic corruption of ournpublic life (the Grant administration.nBoss Tweed, Mark Hanna, on and on)nthat brought shame upon our first centennial.nWhitman died broken, destitute,nunread, a little ways across thenCamden River from a seven-year-oldnboy, the only offspring of the assistantnassayer for the Franklin Mint, whosenown father had been a prominent congressmanndedicated to reform of thennation’s monetary system according tonthe principles of the Founders and thenConstitution.nThis boy grew up to become far andnaway the most completely controversialnand difficult poet of modern times, yetnalways a defender of our Constitution,nWalt Whitman’s truest and best successor,na final heroic personality struggling,nsometimes unsuccessfully, in the universalnoobleck of the Age of Fools.nWhen Pound walked “under the larchesnof paradise” of the arboretum of thenasylum of St. Elizabeths in Washington,nhe walked where Whitman hadnnn”Provides penetratingncritical insight….”n—David W. Gilln”Reading Ellul’s critiquenof Christian l/larxism isnlil^e watching a surgeon.n… Time after time heniocates and slices awaynour cuitural compromisesnof the Gospel…. Whyndo we submit to hisnincisions? Because therenare so few in all the worldnwho can tell us the truth.nAnd he is quite possiblynthe most deft surgeon ofnall”n—Walter WinknPaper, $12.95nAt your bookstore, or call 1-800-633-9326nWM. B. EERDMANSn-ffillVc ^ PUBLISHING CO.nAPRIL 1989/39n