I am not sure that I had the controversy9 with this correspondent that he seemed to suppose; but novels are now so fully10 accepted by every one pretending to cultivated taste and they really form the whole intellectual life of such immense numbers of people, without question of their influence, good or bad, upon the mind that it is refreshing11 to have them frankly12 denounced, and to be invited to revise one's ideas and feelings in regard to them. A little honesty, or a great deal of honesty, in this quest will do the novel, as we hope yet to have it, and as we have already begun to have it, no harm; and for my own part I will confess that I believe fiction in the past to have been largely injurious, as I believe the stage-play to be still almost wholly injurious, through its falsehood, its folly13, its wantonness, and its aimlessness. It may be safely assumed that most of the novel-reading which people fancy an intellectual pastime is the emptiest dissipation, hardly more related to thought or the wholesome14 exercise of the mental faculties15 than opium-eating; in either case the brain is drugged, and left weaker and crazier for the debauch16. If this may be called the negative result of the fiction habit, the positive injury that most novels work is by no means so easily to be measured in the case of young men whose character they help so much to form or deform17, and the women of all ages whom they keep so much in ignorance of the world they misrepresent. Grown men have little harm from them, but in the other cases, which are the vast majority, they hurt because they are not true —not because they are malevolent18, but because they are idle lies about human nature and the social fabric19, which it behooves20 us to know and to understand, that we may deal justly with ourselves and with one another. One need not go so far as our correspondent, and trace to the fiction habit "whatever is wild and visionary, whatever is untrue, whatever is injurious," in one's life; bad as the fiction habit is it is probably not responsible for the whole sum of evil in its victims, and I believe that if the reader will use care in choosing from this fungus-growth with which the fields of literature teem21 every day, he may nourish himself as with the true mushroom, at no risk from the poisonous species.
The tests are very plain and simple, and they are perfectly22 infallible. If a novel flatters the passions, and exalts23 them above the principles, it is poisonous; it may not kill, but it will certainly injure; and this test will alone exclude an entire class of fiction, of which eminent25 examples will occur to all. Then the whole spawn26 of so-called unmoral romances, which imagine a world where the sins of sense are unvisited by the penalties following, swift or slow, but inexorably sure, in the real world, are deadly poison: these do kill. The novels that merely tickle28 our prejudices and lull29 our judgment30, or that coddle our sensibilities or pamper31 our gross appetite for the marvellous, are not so fatal, but they are innutritious, and clog32 the soul with unwholesome vapors33 of all kinds. No doubt they too help to weaken the moral fibre, and make their readers indifferent to "plodding perseverance and plain industry," and to "matter-of-fact poverty and commonplace distress."
Without taking them too seriously, it still must be owned that the "gaudy hero and heroine" are to blame for a great deal of harm in the world. That heroine long taught by example, if not precept34, that Love, or the passion or fancy she mistook for it, was the chief interest of a life, which is really concerned with a great many other things; that it was lasting35 in the way she knew it; that it was worthy36 of every sacrifice, and was altogether a finer thing than prudence37, obedience38, reason; that love alone was glorious and beautiful, and these were mean and ugly in comparison with it. More lately she has begun to idolize and illustrate39 Duty, and she is hardly less mischievous40 in this new role, opposing duty, as she did love, to prudence, obedience, and reason. The stock hero, whom, if we met him, we could not fail to see was a most deplorable person, has undoubtedly41 imposed himself upon the victims of the fiction habit as admirable. With him, too, love was and is the great affair, whether in its old romantic phase of chivalrous42 achievement or manifold suffering for love's sake, or its more recent development of the "virile," the bullying43, and the brutal44, or its still more recent agonies of self-sacrifice, as idle and useless as the moral experiences of the insane asylums45. With his vain posturings and his ridiculous splendor46 he is really a painted barbarian47, the prey48 of his passions and his delusions49, full of obsolete50 ideals, and the motives51 and ethics52 of a savage53, which the guilty author of his being does his best—or his worst —in spite of his own light and knowledge, to foist54 upon the reader as something generous and noble. I am not merely bringing this charge against that sort of fiction which is beneath literature and outside of it, "the shoreless lakes of ditch-water," whose miasms fill the air below the empyrean where the great ones sit; but I am accusing the work of some of the most famous, who have, in this instance or in that, sinned against the truth, which can alone exalt24 and purify men. I do not say that they have constantly done so, or even commonly done so; but that they have done so at all marks them as of the past, to be read with the due historical allowance for their epoch55 and their conditions. For I believe that, while inferior writers will and must continue to imitate them in their foibles and their errors, no one here after will be able to achieve greatness who is false to humanity, either in its facts or its duties. The light of civilization has already broken even upon the novel, and no conscientious56 man can now set about painting an image of life without perpetual question of the verity57 of his work, and without feeling bound to distinguish so clearly that no reader of his may be misled, between what is right and what is wrong, what is noble and what is base, what is health and what is perdition, in the actions and the characters he portrays59.
The fiction that aims merely to entertain—the fiction that is to serious fiction as the opera-bouffe, the ballet, and the pantomime are to the true drama—need not feel the burden of this obligation so deeply; but even such fiction will not be gay or trivial to any reader's hurt, and criticism should hold it to account if it passes from painting to teaching folly.
I confess that I do not care to judge any work of the imagination without first of all applying this test to it. We must ask ourselves before we ask anything else, Is it true?—true to the motives, the impulses, the principles that shape the life of actual men and women? This truth, which necessarily includes the highest morality and the highest artistry —this truth given, the book cannot be wicked and cannot be weak; and without it all graces of style and feats60 of invention and cunning of construction are so many superfluities of naughtiness. It is well for the truth to have all these, and shine in them, but for falsehood they are merely meretricious61, the bedizenment of the wanton; they atone62 for nothing, they count for nothing. But in fact they come naturally of truth, and grace it without solicitation63; they are added unto it. In the whole range of fiction I know of no true picture of life—that is, of human nature—which is not also a masterpiece of literature, full of divine and natural beauty. It may have no touch or tint64 of this special civilization or of that; it had better have this local color well ascertained65; but the truth is deeper and finer than aspects, and if the book is true to what men and women know of one another's souls it will be true enough, and it will be great and beautiful. It is the conception of literature as something apart from life, superfinely aloof66, which makes it really unimportant to the great mass of mankind, without a message or a meaning for them; and it is the notion that a novel may be false in its portrayal67 of causes and effects that makes literary art contemptible68 even to those whom it amuses, that forbids them to regard the novelist as a serious or right-minded person. If they do not in some moment of indignation cry out against all novels, as my correspondent does, they remain besotted in the fume69 of the delusions purveyed70 to them, with no higher feeling for the author than such maudlin71 affection as the frequenter of an opium-joint perhaps knows for the attendant who fills his pipe with the drug.
Or, as in the case of another correspondent who writes that in his youth he "read a great many novels, but always regarded it as an amusement, like horse racing72 and card-playing," for which he had no time when he entered upon the serious business of life, it renders them merely contemptuous. His view of the matter may be commended to the brotherhood73 and sisterhood of novelists as full of wholesome if bitter suggestion; and I urge them not to dismiss it with high literary scorn as that of some Boeotian dull to the beauty of art. Refuse it as we may, it is still the feeling of the vast majority of people for whom life is earnest, and who find only a distorted and misleading likeness74 of it in our books. We may fold ourselves in our scholars' gowns, and close the doors of our studies, and affect to despise this rude voice; but we cannot shut it out. It comes to us from wherever men are at work, from wherever they are truly living, and accuses us of unfaithfulness, of triviality, of mere27 stage-play; and none of us can escape conviction except he prove himself worthy of his time—a time in which the great masters have brought literature back to life, and filled its ebbing75 veins76 with the red tides of reality. We cannot all equal them; we need not copy them; but we can all go to the sources of their inspiration and their power; and to draw from these no one need go far—no one need really go out of himself.
Fifty years ago, Carlyle, in whom the truth was always alive, but in whom it was then unperverted by suffering, by celebrity77, and by despair, wrote in his study of Diderot: "Were it not reasonable to prophesy78 that this exceeding great multitude of novel-writers and such like must, in a new generation, gradually do one of two things: either retire into the nurseries, and work for children, minors79, and semi-fatuous persons of both sexes, or else, what were far better, sweep their novel-fabric into the dust-cart, and betake themselves with such faculty80 as they have to understand and record what is true, of which surely there is, and will forever be, a whole infinitude unknown to us of infinite importance to us? Poetry, it will more and more come to be understood, is nothing but higher knowledge; and the only genuine Romance (for grown persons), Reality."
If, after half a century, fiction still mainly works for "children, minors, and semi-fatuous persons of both sexes," it is nevertheless one of the hopefulest signs of the world's progress that it has begun to work for "grown persons," and if not exactly in the way that Carlyle might have solely81 intended in urging its writers to compile memoirs82 instead of building the "novel-fabric," still it has, in the highest and widest sense, already made Reality its Romance. I cannot judge it, I do not even care for it, except as it has done this; and I can hardly conceive of a literary self-respect in these days compatible with the old trade of make-believe, with the production of the kind of fiction which is too much honored by classification with card-playing and horse-racing. But let fiction cease to lie about life; let it portray58 men and women as they are, actuated by the motives and the passions in the measure we all know; let it leave off painting dolls and working them by springs and wires; let it show the different interests in their true proportions; let it forbear to preach pride and revenge, folly and insanity83, egotism and prejudice, but frankly own these for what they are, in whatever figures and occasions they appear; let it not put on fine literary airs; let it speak the dialect, the language, that most Americans know—the language of unaffected people everywhere—and there can be no doubt of an unlimited84 future, not only of delightfulness85 but of usefulness, for it.
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1
confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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bragging
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| v.自夸，吹嘘( brag的现在分词 )；大话 | |
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perusal
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| n.细读，熟读；目测 | |
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beget
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| v.引起；产生 | |
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plodding
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| a.proceeding in a slow or dull way | |
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perseverance
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| n.坚持不懈，不屈不挠 | |
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distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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gaudy
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| adj.华而不实的；俗丽的 | |
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9
controversy
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| n.争论，辩论，争吵 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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refreshing
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| adj.使精神振作的，使人清爽的，使人喜欢的 | |
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frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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wholesome
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| adj.适合；卫生的；有益健康的；显示身心健康的 | |
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faculties
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| n.能力( faculty的名词复数 )；全体教职员；技巧；院 | |
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debauch
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| v.使堕落，放纵 | |
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deform
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| vt.损坏…的形状；使变形，使变丑；vi.变形 | |
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malevolent
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| adj.有恶意的，恶毒的 | |
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fabric
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| n.织物，织品，布；构造，结构，组织 | |
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behooves
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| n.利益，好处( behoof的名词复数 )v.适宜( behoove的第三人称单数 ) | |
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teem
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| vi.(with)充满，多产 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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exalts
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| 赞扬( exalt的第三人称单数 )； 歌颂； 提升； 提拔 | |
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exalt
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| v.赞扬，歌颂，晋升，提升 | |
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eminent
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| adj.显赫的，杰出的，有名的，优良的 | |
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spawn
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| n.卵，产物，后代，结果；vt.产卵，种菌丝于，产生，造成；vi.产卵，大量生产 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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tickle
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| v.搔痒，胳肢；使高兴；发痒；n.搔痒，发痒 | |
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lull
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| v.使安静，使入睡，缓和，哄骗；n.暂停，间歇 | |
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judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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pamper
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| v.纵容，过分关怀 | |
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clog
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| vt.塞满，阻塞；n.[常pl.]木屐 | |
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vapors
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| n.水汽，水蒸气，无实质之物( vapor的名词复数 )；自夸者；幻想 [药]吸入剂 [古]忧郁（症）v.自夸，（使）蒸发( vapor的第三人称单数 ) | |
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precept
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| n.戒律；格言 | |
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lasting
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| adj.永久的，永恒的；vbl.持续，维持 | |
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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prudence
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| n.谨慎，精明，节俭 | |
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obedience
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| n.服从，顺从 | |
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illustrate
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| v.举例说明，阐明；图解，加插图 | |
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mischievous
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| adj.调皮的，恶作剧的，有害的，伤人的 | |
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undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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42
chivalrous
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| adj.武士精神的；对女人彬彬有礼的 | |
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bullying
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| v.恐吓，威逼( bully的现在分词 )；豪；跋扈 | |
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brutal
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| adj.残忍的，野蛮的，不讲理的 | |
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asylums
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| n.避难所( asylum的名词复数 )；庇护；政治避难；精神病院 | |
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splendor
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| n.光彩；壮丽，华丽；显赫，辉煌 | |
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barbarian
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| n.野蛮人；adj.野蛮(人)的；未开化的 | |
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prey
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| n.被掠食者，牺牲者，掠食；v.捕食，掠夺，折磨 | |
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delusions
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| n.欺骗( delusion的名词复数 )；谬见；错觉；妄想 | |
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obsolete
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| adj.已废弃的，过时的 | |
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51
motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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ethics
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| n.伦理学；伦理观，道德标准 | |
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savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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foist
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| vt.把…强塞给，骗卖给 | |
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epoch
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| n.(新)时代；历元 | |
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conscientious
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| adj.审慎正直的，认真的，本着良心的 | |
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verity
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| n.真实性 | |
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58
portray
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| v.描写，描述；画(人物、景象等) | |
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portrays
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| v.画像( portray的第三人称单数 )；描述；描绘；描画 | |
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feats
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| 功绩，伟业，技艺( feat的名词复数 ) | |
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meretricious
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| adj.华而不实的，俗艳的 | |
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atone
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| v.赎罪，补偿 | |
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solicitation
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| n.诱惑；揽货；恳切地要求；游说 | |
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tint
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| n.淡色，浅色；染发剂；vt.着以淡淡的颜色 | |
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ascertained
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| v.弄清，确定，查明( ascertain的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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aloof
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| adj.远离的；冷淡的，漠不关心的 | |
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portrayal
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| n.饰演；描画 | |
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contemptible
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| adj.可鄙的，可轻视的，卑劣的 | |
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fume
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| n.(usu pl.)(浓烈或难闻的)烟，气，汽 | |
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purveyed
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| v.提供，供应( purvey的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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maudlin
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| adj.感情脆弱的，爱哭的 | |
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racing
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| n.竞赛，赛马；adj.竞赛用的，赛马用的 | |
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brotherhood
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| n.兄弟般的关系，手中情谊 | |
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likeness
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| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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ebbing
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| （指潮水）退( ebb的现在分词 )； 落； 减少； 衰落 | |
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veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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celebrity
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| n.名人，名流；著名，名声，名望 | |
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prophesy
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| v.预言；预示 | |
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minors
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| n.未成年人( minor的名词复数 )；副修科目；小公司；[逻辑学]小前提v.[主美国英语]副修，选修，兼修( minor的第三人称单数 ) | |
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faculty
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| n.才能；学院，系；(学院或系的)全体教学人员 | |
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solely
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| adv.仅仅，唯一地 | |
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memoirs
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| n.回忆录；回忆录传( mem,自oir的名词复数) | |
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insanity
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| n.疯狂，精神错乱；极端的愚蠢，荒唐 | |
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unlimited
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| adj.无限的，不受控制的，无条件的 | |
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delightfulness
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| n.delightful（令人高兴的，使人愉快的，给人快乐的，讨人喜欢的）的变形 | |
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