Against This Age

In Short

This book is a jagged, fiercely intelligent synthesis of poetry and experimental prose that challenges the boundaries of identity and perception. Through a series of vignettes, character studies, and metaphysical dialogues, the work navigates the "blind world" of the American experience—from the mundane fatigue of village life to the cynical, crowded streets of New York City. It has lasted because of its uncompromising, often caustic, scrutiny of the human condition, refusing to provide the reader with easy comforts, and instead offering a portrait of the artist as a lonely, defensive, and deeply skeptical creator.

The Story

The collection begins with a focus on the "blue beginning" of infancy, a state of uncorrupted vision that soon confronts the "revolving monster of life." As the narrative progresses, the focus shifts to the collective behavior of men in public spaces—the street-car, the village store, and the lodging house. We see a "Freudian, poet, and priest" sharing a street-car, each trapped in the "unreal snobbishness" of their own professional silos, unable to grasp the genuine, hidden struggles of the lives they observe.

The journey continues into the heart of an American village, where the characters—Jacob Higgins, Bob Wentworth, and Agnes Holliday—attempt to mask the emptiness of their days with small rituals, gossip, and the "narcotic safety of home." The narrator views these local mannerisms not with pity, but with a detached, clinical observation of how people "groom the mean, untidy habits of their past existences."

Midway through the book, the tone turns inward, focusing on the act of creation itself. The narrator grapples with the "compulsory tasks" of language, lamenting how words are "crucified and fondled" by a prideful society. We encounter portraits of those who attempt to subvert these rigid norms: poets who seek to "darken speech" to reach a "fantastic acquaintance with the eccentric night," and individuals who use the "sleek encouragement of supper" to avoid the deeper, more painful truths of their existence.

The arc culminates in a prolonged, phantasmagoric prose sequence where a dead man and a woman navigate a "reversal of life." In this state, they possess the power to project their own reality onto the world, seeing the decay of empires in a girl's hat or the struggle of a saint within the movement of a limb. They move through city streets and hotel rooms, treating their own bodies as "necessary, insincere" masks that they must wear to interact with an earth that "dreads anything that delicately, aloofly disputes its size." The book concludes on a note of uneasy oscillation; the two figures find themselves caught in a combat between happiness and sadness, ultimately realizing they are not dead but must return to the "sweating, dense, malaria-saturated" world of work and poverty. Their final, shared realization—that their visions have not yet faded—is a fragile victory against the "meaningless intrusions" of a society that labels their inner rage as nothing more than "trivial pose" or "exalted paranoia."

How It Unfolds

The blue beginning The opening poems establish a contrast between the untainted, questioning vision of an infant and the "curtained jail" of an adult existence. This section sets the stage for the book’s preoccupation with how the world—and our own history—admonishes the individual.

The street-car intersection Three distinct types of men are placed together by the "metaphysical prank" of chance, illustrating the isolation of the human mind. The narrator observes how each man attempts to fix his reality through the lens of his own limited, "snobbish" philosophy.

The village under glass The narrative shifts to a close-up examination of a small American community, exposing the "garments of cowardice" worn by its inhabitants. The narrator mocks the "feeble masks" of the villagers while acknowledging the "narcotic safety" they seek in their routine lives.

The burden of language The poems turn to a critique of words themselves, depicted as "brow-beaten bricklayers" that are forced to serve social, political, and religious ends. The narrator calls for a "superbly demented" use of language to betray the "unctuous failures of earth."

The dream of the dead The final, extended prose section features a dialogue between two souls who have transcended their bodily constraints. They learn to manipulate the gray, formless substance of the world, only to find themselves dragged back into the "clumsy fears of clothes" and the grind of daily life.

The People

The narrator, or the voice behind the verse, is a sharp, often cynical observer who functions as a "realist creator." He is deeply suspicious of the "putrid labels" society uses to categorize human experience, yet he is clearly wounded by the very society he disdains. He desires to "clutch" the truth, but finds that his own sensitivity makes him an outsider.

The woman, often referred to as a "girl" or his companion in the final prose, is the narrator’s intellectual and emotional mirror. She shares his "delicately exact" approach to life and his ability to see the symbolic weight in mundane objects, such as a pan of dishwater or a comb. She is the one who guides him through the process of "creating" reality, acting as a teacher in the art of mental endurance.

The "men of the world"—the policemen, the priests, the shopkeepers—represent the "coarser audience" that the narrator fears. They are the ones who "protect the sluggish minds" and rely on "buttons of brass" or "metallic" creeds to maintain the status quo. They are not necessarily villains, but they are obstacles, representing the "bulky and profane" nature of an earth that cannot tolerate the "breathlike intensity" of the poet's inner life.

In Its Own Voice

The blue beginning of your eyes Condenses the sprawling and assured Blue with which the sky retreats From those obscene confessions known as days.

In the opening poem, the narrator uses the image of an infant's eyes to contrast the purity of perception with the "obscene" reality of adult life.

Words, it is apparent That you are crucified and fondled By the pride of each new generation.

In this meditation on language, the narrator expresses his frustration with how words are manipulated to serve the "drudgeries" of social and political theory.

When you win the torpid illness Known as virtue you are less important Than a quest for daisies in the moon.

Addressing a woman, the narrator dismisses traditional morality, urging her to reject social expectations in favor of personal whims and "sharp contacts."

What It's Really About

This book is a sustained inquiry into the nature of reality and the weight of the "socially constructed" self. It asks: Can an individual ever truly be free from the labels, creeds, and "garments of cowardice" that society imposes upon them? The argument is that the "human eye" naturally projects its own desires onto the world, and that this act of perception is the only genuinely real experience. However, the book also asks whether this imaginative freedom is a blessing or a curse. Is the artist’s ability to see past the "greasy monotone" of life a form of liberation, or does it merely lead to a permanent state of exile, where the individual is doomed to be misunderstood, punished, and "trapped" within their own mind?

Why Read It Today

Readers who appreciate the sharp, detached observation of modernism will find this a rewarding, if challenging, experience. The prose is lean and precise, while the poetry often feels like a series of staccato snapshots, capturing moments of intense, claustrophobic intimacy. It is a book that captures the feeling of walking through a bustling city and feeling entirely alone, sensing that everyone around you is just as lost, yet too proud to admit it.

It is not a sentimental book. Those seeking a comforting narrative will be frustrated by its refusal to resolve its conflicts. Its language is sometimes dense, and its tone can be aggressive, reflecting the "lacerated madness" of its period. Yet, there is a warmth beneath the cynicism—a genuine, "breathlike intensity" for those who, like the narrator, find themselves "squinting down at toiling pygmies" while searching for something more real. If you enjoy literature that prizes the "flickering witchcraft" of the imagination over the "stolid frankness" of conventional storytelling, this collection will stay with you long after the final page is turned, particularly the image of the artist as someone who must constantly "ward off" the "meaningless intrusions" of the world just to keep their own vision intact.