  THERE is a saying that “More people know Tom Fool than Tom Fool knows”; that may be all right if it means recognizing him in the street, but he has to be a wonder before he can, without eccentricity, make his work immediately recognized in print and be even distinguishable from the best efforts of imitators. This proverb was obviously in the head of the man or woman who wrote the following sonnet, in the Spectator (I think) about Cunning indeed Tom Fool must be to-day For us, who meet his verses in a book, To cry “Tom Fool wrote that.... I know his way.... ... Unsigned, yet eyed all over with Tom’s look.... Why see! It’s pure Tom Fool, I’m not mistook.... Fine simple verses too; now who’s to say How Tom has charmed these worn old words to obey His shepherd’s voice and march beneath his crook? Instead we ponder “I can’t name the man, But he’s been reading Wilde,” or “That’s the school Of CÔterie.... Voices.... Pound ... the Sitwell clan ...” “He ‘knows his Kipling’” ... “he accepts the rule Of Monro ... of Lord Tennyson ... of Queen Anne” How seldom, “There, for a ducat, writes, Tom Fool. The writer evidently had a keen eye for the failings of others, but is convicted out of his own mouth, for I have met nobody who can identify this particular Tom Fool for me. Hateful as is the art of the parodist when it spoils poems which have delighted and puzzled us, parody has its uses. A convincing parody is the best possible danger signal to inform a poet that he is writing sequels, repeating his conjuring tricks until they can be seen through and ridiculously imitated. “That awkward fellow Ariphrades,” much as we dislike him, is one of the most useful members of our republic of letters. |
|
