The Fine Art of Swearing

OCCUPATION: WRITER (320 pp.)--Robert Graves--Creative Age ($4).

With the two words of his title, explains Robert Graves, "I fill in my income-tax return--but cynically because 'writer' has become almost meaningless as a descriptive term since popular education opened the dikes to a shallow sea." Having blared this raspberry into the face of the "antipoetic world of commerce and bureaucracy," tetchy Poet Graves admits that he has been forced to spend much of the last quarter-century earning bread for his seven children by churning out historical novels for the antipoetic market. What bothers him now is how much longer he can keep the churn turning. "I shall gradually reduce my Graves's orders," he imagines a bookseller saying. "I wouldn't go so far as to say that he's written out. But it stands to reason he can't keep it up indefinitely."

This is Graves's apology for doing what most any other author is far too ready to do: rest on his financial oars by bringing out. "a collection of my short stories, plays, and miscellaneous essays." And yet, if there is nothing in Occupation: Writer that shows Robert Graves in the full splendor of his poetry, or even at his first-rate, second-best (as in some of his novels, mythological studies and essays on poetry) there is still more here in the way of humor, erudition and intellectual enthusiasm than most writers ever achieve at their best.

Go Down, Moses. Like other miscellanies, this one is mostly ups-&-downs. Best of the few short stories in it is The Shout, a brilliant little tale of pure terror. The short essays are lively, learned snippets from Graves's favorite golden boughs of etymology and historical myth, e.g., one of them traces an incestuous path down the lineage of Rome's haughty Caesars, another gets a hold on the book of Exodus, turns it upside down, shakes its patriarchal Mosaic to fragments, and finally puts it all together again in the image of Graves's inseparable muse, the so-called "White Goddess."

Best of the lot is the long essay " 'Lars Porsena,' * or the Future of Swearing and Improper Language." "Keep obscene or indecent language as a last resort," warns an ancient but sensible Chinese handbook on swearing etiquette. "Avoid reflections on the chastity of your opponent's female relations or on any physical infirmity from which he may be suffering. Once you have gone so far it is impossible to retrace your steps and resort to minor forms of vituperation. Never shout ... Be calm . . . Begin with a great show of courtesy . . ."

One Man, One Vote. How little, muses Graves, does today's crude swearer reflect the high polish of his Chinese predecessor. On the other hand, he has also lost the Elizabethan faculty for fairly plastering his "opponent" with a custard-pie onslaught of laborious, invidious obscenities. Moslems still manage this very well, says Graves, but some of their English-speaking contemporaries have grown so dependent on the single epithet "bloody" (probable origin: "by 'r Lady") that they can hardly grasp the meaning of any word without its assistance. As instance, Author Graves quotes two Britons discussing whether any man should be allowed more than one vote:

"What I says, is: one man, one vote"

"Whadyer mean?"

"Clear, ain't it? One man, one vote"

"Can't make out whadyer mean . . ."

"Seems to me what you want is your bloody ear-'oles syringed out! What I mean is: one bloody man, one bloody vote!"

"Aow! Now why didn't you say so?" Wooden Soldiers. It is Graves's grave conclusion that the growing decadence of what was once called Christendom is leading to a point where even when the swearer has a full, fruity vocabulary his soul will be too withered to put proper punch into even his most foul-mouthed efforts. This decadence has even seeped into the British army, Graves avers; but since Britons do their best with their backs to the wall, a few drill sergeants here and there are fighting a magnificent rearguard action. When "positive swearing" fails to impress their rookies, these dauntless bulldogs fall back on the finer, far-more-difficult art of "negative swearing," i.e., not swearing at all. This art is shown in its finest flower by the following little story, told by a desperate physical instructor to his squad:

"When I was a little nipper, my dear old Granny gave me a little box of wooden soldiers on my seventh birthday. Oh dear, you wouldn't imagine how pleased I was with them! I drilled them up and I drilled them down, and then one day I took them to the seashore and lost them. Bless my soul, how I cried! My little handkerchief was soaked. And when I came home to tea that night, blubbering and late, my dear old Granny--God bless 'er, her hair was white as snow and her soul whiter still--she says to me: 'Little Archie, cheer up!' she says. 'For God is good and one day you'll find your little wooden soldiers again.' And oh, good God, she was right; I have. YOU WOODEN STIFFS WITH THE PAINT SUCKED OFF YOUR FACES !"

* The Etruscan invader of Macaulay's Horatius at the Bridge:

Lars Porsena of Clusium

By the Nine Gods he swore . . .

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