"There was no doubt that this poor man was mad, but there is something in the madness of this man which interests me more than the sanity of Lord Byron and Walter Scott."
- Wordsworth on William Blake
While it may have worked for Wordsworth, Blake’s madness doesn’t do much for me. Maybe we’re overused to it now.
Reputation – 4/5
William Blake spent his life working as an engraver of other people’s books. In his own time and with his own money he published small editions of his own poetry with original illustrations. None of it made any impression on anyone and he was practically unknown when he died in 1827. Two generations of Romantic poets glossed over him; Wordsworth’s above comment being the only mention made of him by any of the great Romantics.
But by the middle of the 20th Century, Blake had become the most widely studied and interpreted poet in English. Poets, hippies, and academics alike praised his work and searched for meaning in it. What had happened?
Point – 2/5
Blake had become a prophet.
Taking his poetry and visual art together, a century of over-interpreters had found a new puzzle in William Blake. His cryptic metaphors, his sustained darkness and pessimism, and the strangeness of his engravings gave the impression that, cloaked under the madness, there was a structured cosmology invented by an original genius.
There can be no doubt that Blake was an original. His visual art, though crude and childlike when compared with professionally trained artists of any period, does create a strong impression. When seen side-by-side with his poetry, the cumulative weirdness of both does make one feel that there is something below the surface. When seen in this light, it’s really no surprise that Blake became very popular among people like Allen Ginsberg and Jim Morrison, who must have spent many drugged nights repeating the kind of mysterious phrases that are the backbone of Blake’s poetry:
”To see a World in a Grain of Sand
And a Heaven in a Wild Flower
Hold Infinity in the palm of your hand
And Eternity in an hour”
“The Lamb misused breeds Public Strife
And yet forgives the Butchers Knife.”
”He who shall hurt the little wren shall never be beloved by men.”
“No bird soars too high. if he soars with his own wings.”
These are admittedly fascinating. They shamelessly beg interpretation. And that is at once their success and failure.
The only way to consider Blake a great writer is to consider him a prophet, to take phrases like the above and to try to make sense of them. Blake’s works of “prophecy” are laden with aphorisms that, out of context, sound pregnant with meaning. But when they are actually read one after another in the shape of a poem, they are just a string of empty phrases, unconnected with one another by any comprehensible logic. After 11 other senseless phrases that don’t sound as good, you come across a 12th like the ones quoted above – terse, dazzling, and strange.
Works like “The Auguries of Innocence” are collections of these rambling prophecies, ongoing assemblages of hit or miss proverbs. This is the basis of Blake’s poetics.
What Blake truly lacks is sustained concentration and attention. This is not surprising in a person who is called mad even by his most fervent admirers. Wordsworth was absolutely right: Blake was a madman. And not merely a madman, but one tending to the darker side of life. To Blake, everything is:
“weeping” – appears 36 times in the 80 or so pages of text,
“tears” - 34 times,
“crying” - 30 times,
“dark” - 29 times,
“woe” - 20 times,
“pride” - 18 times,
“pitiful” - 16 times,
“sorrow” - 15 times,
“Satan” - 12 times, or
“lion” - 16 times.
That Blake was a tortured crazy man, there can be no question. To call him a tortured genius really says much more about the age interpreting him than about Blake himself.
Now, we are simply living in an age in which we are more interested in madness than in sanity. We love a good tortured soul, and we love trying to figure out what they were trying to say.
Recommendation – 4/5
If you love the persecuted, lonely artist, struggling against poverty and society to express his wild vision, then let me tell you, you are going to LOVE William Blake. He’s the archetypal madman artist and poet. The only other crazy person that comes close is Van Gogh, and even he was monotonously normal compared to Blake. If you like poetry because you like to get stoned and read it in the middle of the night with a few candles lit while spacey music plays in the background, then Blake is your man. If you’re a graduate student in literature who wants to find a subject to talk about that no one will understand, here, take this book. Hell, this book isn’t crazy enough, go take Blake’s Jerusalem off the shelves and see what you can find in there.
I may sound like I’m being facetious, but the three types I have described above make up a large proportion of the people that read poetry for pleasure. So, 4/5.
Enjoyment – 2/5
For me, though – 2/5.
Blake’s craziness doesn’t do it for me. To sit there pouring over clumsy phrases like
“Tools were made & Born were hands
Every Farmer understands.”
No thank you. When Blake is understandable his language is awkward, when he is cryptic, he is occasionally beautiful, but always crazy. To my mind there are much more profound and universal things to try to interpret than the scribblings of an amateur poet living in England in the late 18th Century. If I were interested in that sort of obsessiveness, I would choose a wider and more worthwhile mind. Joyce’s, for example.
There are endless interpretations of Blake. But to me he seems like a bit of a con man on top of being a madman. His fight against the Reason of Newton and Voltaire is noble in the sense of the Romantic, but in Blake it ends in the tyranny of impenetrable and incomplete individual mythologies that are too devoid of reason to offer a key to them. But by making himself out to be a declared enemy of Reason, Blake is begging to be interpreted on his own terms. Clever bait. And one that our academics never get tired of taking.