There are never, at any time and place, more than a few literary critics of genuine incision1, taste, and instinct; and these qualities, rare enough in themselves, are further debilitated2, in many cases, by excessive geniality3 or indigestion. The ideal literary critic should be guarded as carefully as a delicate thermal4 instrument at the Weather Bureau; his meals, friendships, underwear, and bank account should all be supervised by experts and advisedly maintained at a temperate5 mean. In the Almost Perfect State (so many phases of which have been deliciously delineated by Mr. Marquis) a critic seen to become over-exhilarated at the dining table or to address any author by his first name would [193]promptly be haled from the room by a commissionaire lest his intellectual acuity6 become blunted by emotion.
The unfortunate habit of critics being also human beings has done a great deal to impair7 their value to the public. For other human beings we all nourish a secret disrespect. And therefore it is well that the world should be reminded now and then of the dignity and purity of the critic's function. The critic's duty is not merely to tabulate8 literary material according to some convenient scale of proved niceties; but to discern the ratio existing in any given work between possibility and performance; between the standard the author might justly have been expected to achieve and the standard he actually attained9. There are hierarchies10 and lower archies. A pint11 pot, full (it is no new observation), is just as full as a bathtub full. And the first duty of the critic is to determine and make plain to the reader the frame of mind in which the author approached his task.
Just as a ray of sunshine across a room reveals, in air that seemed clear, innumerable motes12 of golden dancing dust and filament13, so the bright beam of a great critic shows us the unsuspected floating atoms of temperament14 in the mind of a great writer. The popular understanding of the word criticize is to find fault, to pettifog. As usual, the popular mind is only partly right. The true critic is the tender curator and warden15 of all that is worthy16 in letters. His function is sacramental, like the sweeping17 of a hearth18. He keeps the hearth clean and nourishes the fire. It is a holy fire, for its fuel is men's hearts.
[194]It seems to us probable that under present conditions the cause of literature is more likely to suffer from injudicious and excessive praise rather than from churlish and savage20 criticism. It seems to us (and we say this with certain misgivings21 as to enthusiasms of our own) that there are many reviewers whose honest zeal22 for the discovering of masterpieces is so keen that they are likely to burst into superlatives half a dozen times a year and hail as a flaming genius some perfectly23 worthy creature, who might, if he were given a little stiff discipline, develop into a writer of best-readers rather than best-sellers. Too resounding24 praise is often more damning than faint praise. The writer who has any honest intentions is more likely to be helped by a little judicious19 acid now and then than by cartloads of honey. Let us be candid25 and personal. When someone in The New Republic spoke26 of some essays of our own as "blowzy" we were moved for a few moments to an honest self-scrutiny and repentance27. Were we really blowzy, we said to ourself? We did not know exactly what this meant, and there was no dictionary handy. But the word gave us a picture of a fat, ruddy beggar-wench trudging28 through wind and rain, probably on the way to a tavern29; and we determined30, with modest sincerity31, to be less like that in future.
The good old profession of criticism tends, in the hands of the younger generation, toward too fulsome32 ejaculations of hurrahs and hyperboles. It is a fine thing, of course, that new talent should so swiftly win its recognition; yet we think we are not wholly wrong in believing that many a delicate and promising33 writer [195]has been hurried into third-rate work, into women's magazine serials34 and cheap sordid35 sensationalism, by a hasty overcapitalization of the reviewer's shouts. For our own part, we do not feel any too sure of our ability to recognize really great work when we first see it. We have often wondered, if we had been journalizing in 1855 when "Leaves of Grass" appeared, would we have been able to see what it meant, or wouldn't we have been more likely to fill our column with japeries at the expense of Walt's obvious absurdities36, missing all the finer grain? It took a man like Emerson to see what Walt was up to.
There were many who didn't. Henry James, for instance, wrote a review of "Drum Taps" in the Nation, November 16, 1865. In the lusty heyday37 and assurance of twenty-two years, he laid the birch on smartly. It is just a little saddening to find that even so clear-sighted an observer as Henry James could not see through the chaotic38 form of Whitman to the great vision and throbbing39 music that seem so plain to us to-day. Whitman himself, writing about "Drum Taps" before its publication, said, "Its passion has the indispensable merit that though to the ordinary reader let loose with wildest abandon, the true artist can see that it is yet under control." With this, evidently, the young Henry James did not agree. He wrote:
It has been a melancholy40 task to read this book; and it is a still more melancholy one to write about it. Perhaps since the day of Mr. Tupper's "Philosophy" there has been no more difficult reading of the poetic41 sort. It exhibits the effort of an essentially42 prosaic43 [196]mind to lift itself, by a prolonged muscular strain, into poetry. Like hundreds of other good patriots44, Mr. Walt Whitman has imagined that a certain amount of violent sympathy with the great deeds and sufferings of our soldiers, and of admiration45 for our national energy, together with a ready command of picturesque46 language, are sufficient inspiration for a poet.... But he is not a poet who merely reiterates47 these plain facts ore rotundo. He only sings them worthily48 who views them from a height.... Mr. Whitman is very fond of blowing his own trumpet49, and he has made very explicit50 claims for his book.... The frequent capitals are the only marks of verse in Mr. Whitman's writing. There is, fortunately, but one attempt at rhyme.... Each line starts off by itself, in resolute51 independence of its companions, without a visible goal ... it begins like verse and turns out to be arrant52 prose. It is more like Mr. Tupper's proverbs than anything we have met.... No triumph, however small, is won but through the exercise of art, and this volume is an offence against art.... We look in vain through the book for a single idea. We find nothing but flashy imitations of ideas. We find a medley53 of extravagances and commonplaces.
We do not know whether H.J. ever recanted this very youthful disposal of old Walt. The only importance of it at this moment seems to us this: that appreciation55 of all kinds of art is so tenderly interwoven with inherited respect for the traditional forms of expression by which they are conveyed that a new and surprising vehicle quite unfits most observers for any reasonable assessment56 of the passenger.
As for Walt himself, he was quite unabashed by this or any other onslaught. He was not gleg at argument, [197]and probably rolled up the issue of the Nation in his pocket and went down to Coney Island to lie on the sand and muse57 (but no, we forget, it was November!). In the same issue of the Nation he doubtless read, in the "Literary Notes," that "Poems Relating to the American Revolution," by Philip Freneau, was "in press under the scholarly editing of Evart A. Duyckinck to form a complete presentment of the genius of an author whose influence in the affairs of his time would alone impart a lasting58 value to his works." At this Walt smiled gently to himself, wondered how soon "When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloomed" would get into the anthologies, and "sped to the certainties suitable to him."
II
These miscellaneous thoughts on the fallibility of critics were suggested to us by finding some old bound volumes of the Edinburgh Review on a bookstall, five cents each. In the issue for November, 1814, we read with relish59 what the Review had to say about Wordsworth's "Excursion." These are a few excerpts60:
This will never do.... The case of Mr. Wordsworth, we perceive, is now manifestly hopeless; and we give him up as altogether incurable61, and beyond the power of criticism ... making up our minds, though with the most sincere pain and reluctance62, to consider him as finally lost to the good cause of poetry.... The volume before us, if we were to describe it very shortly, we should characterize as a tissue of moral and devotional ravings, in which innumerable changes are rung upon a few very simple and familiar ideas.
[198]The world of readers has not ratified63 Jeffrey's savage comments on "The Excursion," for (to reckon only by the purse) any frequenter of old bookshops can pick up that original issue of the Edinburgh Review for a few cents, while the other day we saw a first edition of the maligned64 "Excursion" sold for thirty dollars. A hundred years ago it was the critic's pleasure to drub authors with cruel and unnecessary vigour65. But we think that almost equal harm can be done by the modern method of hailing a new "genius" every three weeks.
For example, there is something subtly troublesome to us in the remark that Sinclair Lewis made about Evelyn Scott's novel, "The Narrow House." The publishers have used it as an advertising66 slogan, and the words have somehow buzzed their way into our head:
We have been going about our daily affairs, climbing subway stairs, dodging68 motor trucks, ordering platters of stewed69 rhubarb, with that refrain recurring70 and recurring. Salute to Evelyn Scott! (we say to ourself as we stand in line at the bank, waiting to cash a small check). She belongs, she understands. And then, as we go away, pensively71 counting the money (they've got some clean Ones down at our bank, by the way; we don't know whether the larger denominations72 are clean or not, we haven't seen any since Christmas), we find ourself mumbling73, She is definitely an artist.
We wonder why that pronouncement annoys us so. [199]We haven't read all Mrs. Scott's book yet, and doubt our strength to do so. It is a riot of morbid74 surgery by a fumbling75 scalpel: great powers of observation are put to grotesque76 misuse77. It is crammed78 with faithful particulars neither relevant nor interesting. (Who sees so little as he who looks through a microscope?) At first we thought, hopefully, that it was a bit of excellent spoof79; then, regretfully, we began to realize that not only the publishers but even the author take it seriously. It feels as though it had been written by one of the new school of Chicago realists. It is disheartening that so influential80 a person as Mr. Lewis should be fooled by this sort of thing.
So there is something intensely irritating to us (although we admire Mr. Lewis) in that "She belongs, she understands, she is definitely an artist." In the first place, that use of the word artist as referring to a writer always gives us qualms82 unless used with great care. Then again, She belongs somehow seems to intimate that there is a registered clique83 of authors, preferably those who come down pretty heavily upon the disagreeable facts of life and catalogue them with gluttonous84 care, which group is the only one that counts. Now we are strong for disagreeable facts. We know a great many. But somehow we cannot shake ourself loose from the instinctive85 conviction that imagination is the without-which-nothing of the art of fiction. Miss Stella Benson is one who is not unobservant of disagreeables, but when she writes she can convey her satire86 in flashing, fantastic absurdity87, in a heavenly chiding88 so delicate and subtle that the victim hardly knows he [200]is being chidden. The photographic facsimile of life always seems to us the lesser89 art, because it is so plainly the easier course.
We fear we are not acute enough to explain just why it is that Mr. Lewis's salute to Mrs. Scott bothers us so. But it does bother us a good deal. We have nourished ourself, in the main, upon the work of two modern writers: Robert Louis Stevenson and Joseph Conrad; we like to apply as a test such theories as we have been able to glean90 from those writers. Faulty and erring81 as we are, we always rise from Mr. Conrad's books purged91 and, for the moment, strengthened. Apparent in him are that manly92 and honourable93 virtue94, that strict saline truth and scrupulous95 regard for life, that liberation from cant54, which seem to be inbred in those who have suffered the exacting96 discipline of the hostile sea. Certainly Conrad cannot be called a writer who has neglected the tragic97 side of things. Yet in his "Notes on Life and Letters," we find this:
What one feels so hopelessly barren in declared pessimism98 is just its arrogance99. It seems as if the discovery made by many men at various times that there is much evil in the world were a source of proud and unholy joy unto some of the modern writers. That frame of mind is not the proper one in which to approach seriously the art of fiction.... To be hopeful in an artistic100 sense it is not necessary to think that the world is good. It is enough to believe that there is no impossibility of its being made so.... I would ask that in his dealings with mankind he [the writer] should be capable of giving a tender recognition to their obscure virtues101. I would not have him impatient[201] with their small failings and scornful of their errors.
We fear that our mild protest is rather mixed and muddled102. But what we darkly feel is this: that no author "belongs," or "understands," or is "definitely an artist" who merely makes the phantoms103 of his imagination paltry104 or ridiculous. They may be paltry, but they must also be pitiable; they may be ridiculous, but they must also be tragic. Many authors have fallen from the sublime105 to the ridiculous; but, as Mr. Chesterton magnificently said, in order to make that descent they must first reach the sublime.
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incision
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| n．切口，切开 | |
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debilitated
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| adj.疲惫不堪的，操劳过度的v.使（人或人的身体）非常虚弱( debilitate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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geniality
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| n.和蔼，诚恳；愉快 | |
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thermal
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| adj.热的，由热造成的；保暖的 | |
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temperate
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| adj.温和的，温带的，自我克制的，不过分的 | |
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acuity
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| n.敏锐，（疾病的）剧烈 | |
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impair
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| v.损害，损伤；削弱，减少 | |
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tabulate
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| v.列表，排成表格式 | |
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attained
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的过去式和过去分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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hierarchies
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| 等级制度( hierarchy的名词复数 )； 统治集团； 领导层； 层次体系 | |
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pint
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motes
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filament
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| n.细丝；长丝；灯丝 | |
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temperament
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warden
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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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sweeping
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hearth
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judicious
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| adj.明智的，明断的，能作出明智决定的 | |
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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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misgivings
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| n.疑虑，担忧，害怕；疑虑，担心，恐惧( misgiving的名词复数 )；疑惧 | |
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zeal
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perfectly
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resounding
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candid
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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repentance
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trudging
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tavern
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determined
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sincerity
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fulsome
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promising
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serials
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sordid
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absurdities
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heyday
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chaotic
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throbbing
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melancholy
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poetic
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essentially
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prosaic
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| adj.单调的，无趣的 | |
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patriots
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| 爱国者，爱国主义者( patriot的名词复数 ) | |
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admiration
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picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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reiterates
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worthily
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trumpet
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explicit
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resolute
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| adj.坚决的，果敢的 | |
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arrant
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| adj.极端的；最大的 | |
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medley
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cant
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appreciation
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assessment
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muse
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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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relish
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| n.滋味，享受，爱好，调味品；vt.加调味料，享受，品味；vi.有滋味 | |
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excerpts
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incurable
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reluctance
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| n.厌恶，讨厌，勉强，不情愿 | |
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ratified
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maligned
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| vt.污蔑，诽谤（malign的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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vigour
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advertising
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salute
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| vi.行礼，致意，问候，放礼炮；vt.向…致意，迎接，赞扬；n.招呼，敬礼，礼炮 | |
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dodging
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| n.避开，闪过，音调改变v.闪躲( dodge的现在分词 )；回避 | |
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stewed
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| adj.焦虑不安的，烂醉的v.炖( stew的过去式和过去分词 )；煨；思考；担忧 | |
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recurring
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| adj.往复的，再次发生的 | |
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pensively
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| adv.沉思地，焦虑地 | |
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denominations
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mumbling
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morbid
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| adj.病的；致病的；病态的；可怕的 | |
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fumbling
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| n. 摸索,漏接 v. 摸索,摸弄,笨拙的处理 | |
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grotesque
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| adj.怪诞的，丑陋的；n.怪诞的图案，怪人（物） | |
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misuse
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| n.误用，滥用；vt.误用，滥用 | |
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crammed
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| adj.塞满的，挤满的；大口地吃；快速贪婪地吃v.把…塞满；填入；临时抱佛脚( cram的过去式) | |
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spoof
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| n.诳骗，愚弄，戏弄 | |
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influential
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| adj.有影响的，有权势的 | |
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erring
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| 做错事的，错误的 | |
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qualms
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| n.不安；内疚 | |
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83
clique
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| n.朋党派系，小集团 | |
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84
gluttonous
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| adj.贪吃的，贪婪的 | |
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85
instinctive
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| adj.(出于)本能的；直觉的；(出于)天性的 | |
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satire
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| n.讽刺，讽刺文学，讽刺作品 | |
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87
absurdity
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| n.荒谬，愚蠢；谬论 | |
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88
chiding
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| v.责骂，责备( chide的现在分词 ) | |
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lesser
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| adj.次要的，较小的；adv.较小地，较少地 | |
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glean
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| v.收集(消息、资料、情报等) | |
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purged
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| 清除（政敌等）( purge的过去式和过去分词 )； 涤除（罪恶等）； 净化（心灵、风气等）； 消除（错事等）的不良影响 | |
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manly
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| adj.有男子气概的；adv.男子般地，果断地 | |
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honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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scrupulous
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| adj.审慎的，小心翼翼的，完全的，纯粹的 | |
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exacting
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| adj.苛求的，要求严格的 | |
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tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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pessimism
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| n.悲观者，悲观主义者，厌世者 | |
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arrogance
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| n.傲慢，自大 | |
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artistic
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| adj.艺术(家)的，美术(家)的；善于艺术创作的 | |
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101
virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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102
muddled
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| adj.混乱的；糊涂的；头脑昏昏然的v.弄乱，弄糟( muddle的过去式)；使糊涂；对付，混日子 | |
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103
phantoms
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| n.鬼怪，幽灵( phantom的名词复数 ) | |
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104
paltry
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| adj.无价值的，微不足道的 | |
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sublime
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| adj.崇高的，伟大的；极度的，不顾后果的 | |
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