The Gift

by Lewis Hyde

  “There has never been a product like this before,” exclaimed Mr. [James W.] Johnston [Union’s marketing vice president], who noted that not only would it deliver higher profit margins than conservative underwear, but it would also react better to advertising and “for the first time add children’s influence to the purchasing decision” for underwear. He’s talking about making ‘gimmes’ out of the young set …

  Mr. Johnston … was later to say, “Advertising is not necessary to sell the product, because it’s a powerful product, but advertising is necessary to establish it as a permanent part of the children’s culture.”

  In a slightly different market, researchers for the nation’s second largest fast-food chain, Burger King, discovered that one out of every three times a family goes out for some fast food, it’s the child who chooses the brand. Apparently, when the weary father comes home and the tired mother says “Let’s eat out,” the father says “Someplace cheap,” and then they do what the children say. Retail sales in this market were $14.5 billion in 1977, so in that year the desires of children directed the spending of about $5 billion.

  In 1977 Burger King developed a character—a magician named Burger King—in an attempt to lure hungry children away from McDonald’s, represented by a clown named Ronald McDonald. Burger King also bankrolled a “giveaway” program in which they “gave” the children of the nation $4 million worth of little toys. “It’s a tangible reward to the kid for switching his affections from Ronald to the King,” said the Burger King vice president for marketing. Burger King was prepared to spend $40 million a year on advertising if they found their magician could attract and hold the kids’ affections.

  Several things characterize both of these advertising campaigns. First, each company seeks to turn a profit by marketing an image. Not just any kind of image, either. Magicians, clowns, and men and women with superpowers appeal to children in part because children are powerless and seek to release themselves from that burden through the imagination, and in part because super people are the stuff of fairy tale and myth. Secondly, this form of marketing uses gift decoys. Burger King’s “giveaway” toys are technically bribes, not gifts. Sales rely on keeping these categories confused, however, for the intent is to use the bonding power of gifts to attach children to a product. The bond is not used, that is, for the increase that comes of gift exchange but for market profits. Finally, these campaigns are directed toward children because children are not as cynical as adults; they are more easily stirred by archetypal imagery and less likely to abstract themselves from emotional ties. Moreover, the child is needed to make an emotional appeal to the adult, the source of the cash. The profit depends on this formula: an innocent and imaginative child plus a parent with money plus an affectionate tie between the two. The people who marketed Underoos sold them in supermarkets rather than clothing stores because children more often accompany their mothers to the market and the whole promotional strategy would fall apart if this third thing, the bond between the parent and the child, was missing at the moment of the sale.

  Usury in its ancient sense refers to rationalizing the increase and reciprocity of gift exchange so that it becomes a precondition of commerce that both principal and increase return to the original “owner” of the good. With this rationalization the emotional and spiritual increase of commerce is lost, though the material may remain. The sin of usury is to separate goodwill from its vehicle. The usurer rents what should be a gift (or sells what should be a gift). Usury in this sense appears, therefore, whenever someone manages to convert a gift situation into a profit situation. Moreover, the usurer finds it in his interest to blur the distinction between the commodity mode and the gift mode so that the former may profit by the energy of the latter. In short, he converts erotic energy into money, goodwill into profit, worth into value.

  The usurer is not really a comrade or a stranger because he makes his living by changing back and forth. On TV he ingratiates himself with the children in the morning to increase his profit margin when the mothers go out for food in the afternoon. He is different in kind from the simple merchant who may have no real interest in the well-being of your family but who at least gives sugar for sugar, salt for salt. The usurer settles for no such equilibrium. He’s in the “juice trade,” say the crooks in Chicago. He turns the juice of life (fantasy and affection in this case) into money.

  Burger King and Union Underwear are modern usurers. The affections of children are drawn toward the market with a combination of counterfeit gifts and images that have a taproot in emotional life and the imagination. Then the child’s awakened desire is brought to bear on the affectionate tie to an adult who, because it is an emotional bond, will be more apt to suspend judgment, enter the gift mentality, and part with the cash. In fine, the usurer seeks out the bonds of affection and the liveliness of the imagination to move his own product for his own profit. When this system works, when kids “switch their affections” to a new product, when the profits are high enough to pay the advertisers and the promo men and the royalties of the comic-book companies, then the images are kept “alive” with advertising and they become “a permanent part of the children’s culture.” (Advertising is the “culture” of a commodity civilization and the images are kept “alive” as long as they turn a profit—usually about a year.)

  But what is the fate of affection and imagination if, whenever we are drawn in their direction, we must pass a stranger collecting tolls?

  Usura slayeth the child in the womb

  It stayeth the young man’s courting

  It hath brought palsey to bed, lyeth

  between the young bride and her bridegroom.

  Once goodwill has been separated from its vehicles, matter will increase without spirit. Objects will begin to appear that carry no social or spiritual feeling, though they are the product of human hands.

  It rusteth the craft and the craftsman.

  It gnaweth the thread in the loom.

  We may address ourselves to Imagism in slightly different terms now. If, in turning toward the imagination, you begin with Pound’s demand for concrete speech (and with the spiritual ends of that demand), or if you begin with William Carlos Williams’s “no ideas but in things,” or with T. S. Eliot’s “objective correlative,” and if the date on the calendar is 1914, you are in a fix. For when all exterior objects can be sold at will, when usury has found a home even in the family food and clothing, then the objects of the outer world can no longer carry the full range of emotional and spiritual life. Feeling and spirit mysteriously drain away when the imagination tries to embody them in commodities. Certainly this is part of the melancholy in those poems of Eliot’s in which men and women are surrounded by coffee spoons and cigarettes but cannot speak to one another. The Waste Land could be a gloss on Marx’s declaration that “the only comprehensible language which we can speak to each other … is not that of ourselves, but only that of our commodities and their mutual relations.” The imagination senses that packs of cigarettes or cafeteria trays are not emanations of eros. Some spirit other than the creative spirit attended to their manufacture. There is a line of modern poets who have continued to work with such materials, accepting (or not feeling) the limited amount of emotional and spiritual life in the poem. But another group of modern poets—and Eliot and Pound belong here—admitted the tension of lost life to their writing, allowing the missing vitality to disturb the surface of the poem. And some of these artists turned outward, drawn toward those ideologies that promised to limit the domain of the commodity. They undertook, in short, the redemption of the imagination, and their task led them, willy-nilly, into politics. Poets as disparate in temperament as Pound, Neruda, and Vallejo all began with a strong pull toward “thinking in images”; all found themselves brought up short, and all turned toward politics.

  Before we go much further, however, we must tell two more anecdotes in which Ezra Pound gives a gift—two stories that take us a step closer to the style in which this
particular poet moved from poetry to political economy.

  In the late 1920s, W. B. Yeats, “forbidden Dublin winters” by his health, stayed a season in Rapallo, the Italian town where Pound and his wife had finally settled. The two men were not at ease with each other. Unsure of his own work for the moment, Yeats showed a new verse play to Pound, who returned it with a one-word comment written across the front: “Putrid!” Pound would talk nothing but politics. In A Vision, Yeats recalls their evening walks:

  Sometimes about ten O’Clock at night I accompany him to a street where there are hotels upon one side, upon the other palm-trees and the sea, and there, taking out of his pocket bones and pieces of meat, he begins to call the cats. He knows all their histories—the brindled cat looked like a skeleton until he began to feed it; that fat grey cat is an hotel proprietor’s favourite, it never begs from the guests’ tables and it turns cats that do not belong to the hotel out of the garden; this black cat and that grey cat over there fought on the roof of a four-storied house some weeks ago, fell off, a whirling ball of claws and fur, and now avoid each other.

  Yet now that I recall the scene I think that he has no affection for cats—“some of them so ungrateful,” a friend says—he never nurses the cafe cat, I cannot imagine him with a cat of his own.

  Cats are oppressed, dogs terrify them, landladies starve them, boys stone them, everybody speaks of them with contempt. If they were human beings we could talk of their oppressors with a studied violence, add our strength to theirs, even organise the oppressed and like good politicians sell our charity for power. I examine his criticism in this new light, his praise of writers pursued by ill-luck, left maimed or bedridden by the War …

  Yeats sensed a touch of coldness in Pound’s generosity. The gift does not move out of simple compassion here, but out of a desire of some oppressed part of the soul to come to power. And Yeats would untangle these threads, for charity will not survive when the good politician sells it for power. Power and generosity can sometimes live side by side, but that harmony is a delicate balance, a rare resolution. In politics—and Yeats wants to mark this in Pound as well—affection and generosity usually lose their autonomy and become the servants of power.

  In Saul Bellow’s novel Humboldt’s Gift, Charlie Citrine reflects on power and poets, thinking of the American attitude toward its self-destructive artists. He lists our dead—Edgar Allen Poe, Hart Crane, Randall Jarrell, John Berryman—and comments:

  This country is proud of its dead poets. It takes terrific satisfaction in the poet’s testimony that the USA is too tough, too big, too much, too rugged, that American reality is overpowering. And to be a poet is a school thing, a skirt thing, a church thing. The weakness of the spiritual powers is proved in the childishness, madness, drunkenness, and despair of these martyrs. Orpheus moved stones and trees. But a poet can’t perform a hysterectomy or send a vehicle out of the solar system. Miracle and power no longer belong to him. So poets are loved, but loved because they just can’t make it here. They exist to light up the enormity of the awful tangle and justify the cynicism of those who say, “If I were not such a corrupt, unfeeling bastard, creep, thief, and vulture, I couldn’t get through this either. Look at those good and tender and soft men, the best of us. They succumbed, poor loonies.”

  The paragraph confuses two sorts of power. The “power” that draws the trees toward song is not the “power” that sends men to the moon, any more than the “energy” in Blake’s “Energy is eternal delight” is the same as the one in “the energy crisis.” But, of course, this is the confusion of the age. We wake up to it every morning. It is a modern drama in which a man of frustrated compassion begins to trade his compassion for power. Yeats sensed in Pound’s politics the same tension we addressed in the poetry: a will to power born of a frustrated compassion begins to acquire a life of its own and live apart from that compassion.

  And so we come to Mussolini. There is an oft-quoted letter of Pound’s to Harriet Monroe, oft-quoted because it is one of the first times that Pound mentions his Italian hero: “I personally think extremely well of Mussolini. If one compares him to American presidents (the last three) or British premiers, etc., in fact one CAN NOT without insulting him. If the intelligentsia don’t think well of him, it is because they know nothing about ‘the state,’ and government, and have no particularly large sense of values.” The context of Pound’s remarks is not usually noted: most of the letter is addressed to the problem of artists being unable to earn a living. Monroe had asked Pound to consider a lecture tour in the States and he asked if it might pay enough to free him to work: “If I blow all that energy, I have got to have a few years free from WORRY AFTER it. Poverty here is decent and honourable. In America it lays one open to continuous insult on all sides …” Later: “You might devote a special number, poesy contest for best estimate of psychology of the man who paid 20,000 bucks for copy of Poe’s Tammammwhatever it is. Interest on 20,000 bucks wd. keep a live writer for life. Wot these bastards lack is a little intelligence.”

  As I have said, Pound was attracted to any economic system that seemed hospitable to the artist and, in his estimation, Mussolini was a leader who knew his people needed poetry. Moreover, he was a man of action. He built people houses. He turned swamps into croplands. “From the time of Tiberius the Italian intelligentzia has been talking of draining the swamps,” says Pound, but only Mussolini got it done. He was “the De-bunker par excellence.” He took no guff from financiers:

  They were to have a consortium

  and one of the potbellies says:

  will come in for 12 million”

  And another: three millyum for my cut;

  And another: we will take eight;

  And the Boss said: but what will you

  DO with that money?”

  “But! but! signore, you do not ask a man

  what he will do with his money.

  That is a personal matter.

  And the Boss said: but what will you do?

  Mussolini understood that a money system, particularly after the Industrial Revolution, should be directed toward the distribution of abundance, not the management of scarcity. Pound reports that Mussolini gave a speech in 1934 in which, “speaking very clearly four or five words at a time … to let it sink in,” he declared that the problem of production was solved and that people could now turn their attention to distribution. Pound was delighted; he sent an obituary to the Criterion in London: “at 4:14 in the Piazza del Duomo, Milano …, Scarcity Economics died.”

  Finally, Mussolini was a man “filled with … the will toward order.” In a 1932 letter, Pound advised a friend, “Don’t knock Mussolini … He will end with Sigismondo and the men of order, not with the pus-sacks and destroyers. I believe that anything human will and understanding of contemporary Italy cd. accomplish, he has done and will continue to do.”

  Which brings us to our last anecdote in which Ezra Pound gives a gift.

  In the early 1930s Pound requested and was granted an interview with Mussolini in Rome. He had petitioned Mussolini’s secretary for the meeting some ten months before, explaining that he wanted to talk about the accomplishments of Fascism, the cork industry, and conditions in the sulfur mines. Late in the day on January 30, 1933, Pound was admitted to see the Boss. He gave Mussolini a typewritten summary of his economic ideas and a vellum edition of A Draft of XXX Cantos, published a few years earlier in Paris. A later canto reports Mussolini’s reaction:

  “Ma questo,”

  said the Boss, “è divertente.”*

  catching the point before the aesthetes had got there …

  Pound accepted the remark as his laurel; his admiration of Mussolini took an exponential leap. Within a month he wrote his tract Jefferson and / or Mussolini (sending a copy to the Boss “with devoted homage”).

  Isn’t this account a little strange? Did Pound really believe that Mussolini had read the Cantos before they met (or even afterward)? Had he never heard of polite convers
ation? And what could Il Duce have thought of the poet? Pound was firmly set in the habit of delivering his opinions without benefit of elaboration. We know for a fact that more than one Italian Fascist close to Mussolini found the poet “unbalanced” and his written Italian “incomprehensible.” In any event, it seems doubtful that Mussolini was as ripe to see the State Poet in Pound as Pound was to see the Poet’s State in Mussolini’s Italy. The meeting’s real significance, then, lies in Pound’s own cosmology, for Mussolini is the incarnation of Pound’s Confucian side. Stated in this fashion, Pound’s gift of the Cantos to the Boss concretizes and marks the moment when the imagination is given over to the will. In 1933 Pound literally handed Song over to Authority, a gift that cannot but break its own spirit, for neither the gift nor the imagination can survive as servants of the will toward order.

  III • The Jew in the Hedge