Yet, in connection with this fact, it is worthy1 of more than passing note that no great while ago the New York Times' carefully selected committee, in picking out the hundred best books published during a particular year, declared as to novels—"a 'best' book, in our opinion, is one that raises an important question, or recurs2 to a vital theme and pronounces upon it what in some sense is a last word." Now this definition is not likely ever to receive more praise than it deserves. Cavilers may, of course, complain that actually to write the last word on any subject is a feat3 reserved for the Recording4 Angel's unique performance on judgment5 Day. Even setting that objection aside, it is undeniable that no work of fiction published of late in America corresponds quite so accurately6 to the terms of this definition as do the multiplication7 tables. Yet the multiplication tables are not without their claims to applause as examples of straightforward8 narrative9. It is, also, at least permissible10 to consider that therein the numeral five, say, where it figures as protagonist11, unfolds under the stress of its varying adventures as opulent a development of real human nature as does, through similar ups-and-downs, the Reverend John Hodder in The Inside of the Cup. It is equally allowable to find the less simple evolution of the digit12 seven more sympathetic, upon the whole, than those of Undine Spragg in The Custom of the Country. But, even so, this definition of what may now, authoritatively13, be ranked as a "best novel" is an honest and noteworthy severance14 from misleading literary associations such as have too long befogged our notions about reading-matter. It points with emphasis toward the altruistic15 obligations of tale-tellers to be "vital."
For we average-novel-readers—we average people, in a word—are now, as always, rather pathetically hungry for "vital" themes, such themes as appeal directly to our everyday observation and prejudices. Did the decision rest with us all novelists would be put under bond to confine themselves forevermore to themes like these.
As touches the appeal to everyday observation, it is an old story, at least coeval16 with Mr. Crummles' not uncelebrated pumps and tubs, if not with the grapes of Zeuxis, how unfailingly in art we delight to recognize the familiar. A novel whose scene of action is explicit17 will always interest the people of that locality, whatever the book's other pretensions18 to consideration. Given simultaneously19 a photograph of Murillo's rendering20 of The Virgin21 Crowned Queen of Heaven and a photograph of a governor's installation in our State capital, there is no one of us but will quite naturally look at the latter first, in order to see if in it some familiar countenance22 be recognizable. And thus, upon a larger scale, the twentieth century is, pre-eminently, interested in the twentieth century.
It is all very well to describe our average-novel-readers' dislike of Romanticism as "the rage of Caliban not seeing his own face in a glass." It is even within the scope of human dunderheadedness again to point out here that the supreme23 artists in literature have precisely24 this in common, and this alone, that in their masterworks they have avoided the "vital" themes of their day with such circumspection25 as lesser26 folk reserve for the smallpox27. The answer, of course, in either case, is that the "vital" novel, the novel which peculiarly appeals to us average-novel-readers, has nothing to do with literature. There is between these two no more intelligent connection than links the paint Mr. Sargent puts on canvas and the paint Mr. Dockstader puts on his face.
Literature is made up of the re-readable books, the books which it is possible—for the people so constituted as to care for that sort of thing—to read again and yet again with pleasure. Therefore, in literature a book's subject is of astonishingly minor29 importance, and its style nearly everything: whereas in books intended to be read for pastime, and forthwith to be consigned30 at random31 to the wastebasket or to the inmates32 of some charitable institute, the theme is of paramount33 importance, and ought to be a serious one. The modern novelist owes it to his public to select a "vital" theme which in itself will fix the reader's attention by reason of its familiarity in the reader's everyday life.
Thus, a lady with whose more candid34 opinions the writer of this is more frequently favored nowadays than of old, formerly35 confessed to having only one set rule when it came to investment in new reading-matter—always to buy the Williamsons' last book. Her reason was the perfectly36 sensible one that the Williamsons' plots used invariably to pivot37 upon motor-trips, and she is an ardent38 automobilist. Since, as of late, the Williamsons have seen fit to exercise their typewriter upon other topics, they have as a matter of course lost her patronage39.
This principle of selection, when you come to appraise40 it sanely41, is the sole intelligent method of dealing42 with reading-matter. It seems here expedient43 again to state the peculiar28 problem that we average-novel-readers have of necessity set the modern novelist—namely, that his books must in the main appeal to people who read for pastime, to people who read books only under protest and only when they have no other employment for that particular half-hour.
Now, reading for pastime is immensely simplified when the book's theme is some familiar matter of the reader's workaday life, because at outset the reader is spared considerable mental effort. The motorist above referred to, and indeed any average-novel-reader, can without exertion44 conceive of the Williamsons' people in their automobiles45. Contrariwise, were these fictitious46 characters embarked47 in palankeens or droshkies or jinrikishas, more or less intellectual exercise would be necessitated48 on the reader's part to form a notion of the conveyance50. And we average-novel-readers do not open a book with the intention of making a mental effort. The author has no right to expect of us an act so unhabitual, we very poignantly51 feel. Our prejudices he is freely chartered to stir up—if, lucky rogue52, he can!—but he ought with deliberation to recognize that it is precisely in order to avoid mental effort that we purchase, or borrow, his book, and afterward53 discuss it.
Hence arises our heartfelt gratitude54 toward such novels as deal with "vital" themes, with the questions we average-novel-readers confront or make talk about in those happier hours of our existence wherein we are not reduced to reading. Thus, a tale, for example, dealing either with "feminism" or "white slavery" as the handiest makeshift of spinsterdom—or with the divorce habit and plutocratic55 iniquity56 in general, or with the probable benefits of converting clergymen to Christianity, or with how much more than she knows a desirable mother will tell her children—finds the book's tentative explorer, just now, amply equipped with prejudices, whether acquired by second thought or second hand, concerning the book's topic. As endurability goes, reading the book rises forthwith almost to the level of an afternoon-call where there is gossip about the neighbors and Germany's future. We average-novel-readers may not, in either case, agree with the opinions advanced; but at least our prejudices are aroused, and we are interested.
And these "vital" themes awake our prejudices at the cost of a minimum—if not always, as when Miss Corelli guides us, with a positively57 negligible— tasking of our mental faculties58. For such exemption59 we average-novel-readers cannot but be properly grateful. Nay60, more than this: provided the novelist contrive61 to rouse our prejudices, it matters with us not at all whether afterward they be soothed62 or harrowed. To implicate63 our prejudices somehow, to raise in us a partizanship in the tale's progress, is our sole request. Whether this consummation be brought about through an arraignment64 of some social condition which we personally either advocate or reprehend—the attitude weighs little—or whether this interest be purchased with placidly65 driveling preachments of generally "uplifting" tendencies—vaguely titillating66 that vague intention which exists in us all of becoming immaculate as soon as it is perfectly convenient—the personal prejudices of us average-novel-readers are not lightly lulled67 again to sleep.
In fact, the jealousy68 of any human prejudice against hinted encroachment69 may safely be depended upon to spur us through an astonishing number of pages—for all that it has of late been complained among us, with some show of extenuation70, that our original intent in beginning certain of the recent "vital" novels was to kill time, rather than eternity71. And so, we average-novel-readers plod72 on jealously to the end, whether we advance (to cite examples already somewhat of yesterday) under the leadership of Mr. Upton Sinclair aspersing73 the integrity of modern sausages and millionaires, or of Mr. Hall Caine saying about Roman Catholics what ordinary people would hesitate to impute74 to their relatives by marriage—or whether we be more suavely75 allured76 onward77 by Mrs. Florence Barclay, or Mr. Sydnor Harrison, with ingenuous78 indorsements of the New Testament79 and the inherent womanliness of women.
The "vital" theme, then, let it be repeated, has two inestimable advantages which should commend it to all novelists: first, it spares us average-novel-readers any preliminary orientation80, and thereby81 mitigates82 the mental exertion of reading; and secondly83, it appeals to our prejudices, which we naturally prefer to exercise, and are accustomed to exercise, rather than our mental or idealistic faculties. The novelist who conscientiously84 bears these two facts in mind is reasonably sure of his reward, not merely in pecuniary85 form, but in those higher fields wherein he harvests his chosen public's honest gratitude and affection.
For we average-novel-readers are quite frequently reduced by circumstances to self-entrustment to the resources of the novelist, as to those of the dentist. Our latter-day conditions, as we cannot but recognize, necessitate49 the employment of both artists upon occasion. And with both, we average-novel-readers, we average people, are most grateful when they make the process of resorting to them as easy and unirritating as may be possible.
点击收听单词发音
1 worthy | |
adj.(of)值得的,配得上的;有价值的 | |
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2 recurs | |
再发生,复发( recur的第三人称单数 ) | |
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3 feat | |
n.功绩;武艺,技艺;adj.灵巧的,漂亮的,合适的 | |
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4 recording | |
n.录音,记录 | |
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5 judgment | |
n.审判;判断力,识别力,看法,意见 | |
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6 accurately | |
adv.准确地,精确地 | |
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7 multiplication | |
n.增加,增多,倍增;增殖,繁殖;乘法 | |
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8 straightforward | |
adj.正直的,坦率的;易懂的,简单的 | |
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9 narrative | |
n.叙述,故事;adj.叙事的,故事体的 | |
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10 permissible | |
adj.可允许的,许可的 | |
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11 protagonist | |
n.(思想观念的)倡导者;主角,主人公 | |
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12 digit | |
n.零到九的阿拉伯数字,手指,脚趾 | |
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13 authoritatively | |
命令式地,有权威地,可信地 | |
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14 severance | |
n.离职金;切断 | |
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15 altruistic | |
adj.无私的,为他人着想的 | |
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16 coeval | |
adj.同时代的;n.同时代的人或事物 | |
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17 explicit | |
adj.详述的,明确的;坦率的;显然的 | |
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18 pretensions | |
自称( pretension的名词复数 ); 自命不凡; 要求; 权力 | |
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19 simultaneously | |
adv.同时发生地,同时进行地 | |
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20 rendering | |
n.表现,描写 | |
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21 virgin | |
n.处女,未婚女子;adj.未经使用的;未经开发的 | |
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22 countenance | |
n.脸色,面容;面部表情;vt.支持,赞同 | |
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23 supreme | |
adj.极度的,最重要的;至高的,最高的 | |
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24 precisely | |
adv.恰好,正好,精确地,细致地 | |
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25 circumspection | |
n.细心,慎重 | |
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26 lesser | |
adj.次要的,较小的;adv.较小地,较少地 | |
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27 smallpox | |
n.天花 | |
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28 peculiar | |
adj.古怪的,异常的;特殊的,特有的 | |
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29 minor | |
adj.较小(少)的,较次要的;n.辅修学科;vi.辅修 | |
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30 consigned | |
v.把…置于(令人不快的境地)( consign的过去式和过去分词 );把…托付给;把…托人代售;丟弃 | |
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31 random | |
adj.随机的;任意的;n.偶然的(或随便的)行动 | |
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32 inmates | |
n.囚犯( inmate的名词复数 ) | |
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33 paramount | |
a.最重要的,最高权力的 | |
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34 candid | |
adj.公正的,正直的;坦率的 | |
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35 formerly | |
adv.从前,以前 | |
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36 perfectly | |
adv.完美地,无可非议地,彻底地 | |
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37 pivot | |
v.在枢轴上转动;装枢轴,枢轴;adj.枢轴的 | |
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38 ardent | |
adj.热情的,热烈的,强烈的,烈性的 | |
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39 patronage | |
n.赞助,支援,援助;光顾,捧场 | |
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40 appraise | |
v.估价,评价,鉴定 | |
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41 sanely | |
ad.神志清楚地 | |
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42 dealing | |
n.经商方法,待人态度 | |
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43 expedient | |
adj.有用的,有利的;n.紧急的办法,权宜之计 | |
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44 exertion | |
n.尽力,努力 | |
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45 automobiles | |
n.汽车( automobile的名词复数 ) | |
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46 fictitious | |
adj.虚构的,假设的;空头的 | |
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47 embarked | |
乘船( embark的过去式和过去分词 ); 装载; 从事 | |
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48 necessitated | |
使…成为必要,需要( necessitate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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49 necessitate | |
v.使成为必要,需要 | |
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50 conveyance | |
n.(不动产等的)转让,让与;转让证书;传送;运送;表达;(正)运输工具 | |
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51 poignantly | |
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52 rogue | |
n.流氓;v.游手好闲 | |
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53 afterward | |
adv.后来;以后 | |
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54 gratitude | |
adj.感激,感谢 | |
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55 plutocratic | |
adj.富豪的,有钱的 | |
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56 iniquity | |
n.邪恶;不公正 | |
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57 positively | |
adv.明确地,断然,坚决地;实在,确实 | |
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58 faculties | |
n.能力( faculty的名词复数 );全体教职员;技巧;院 | |
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59 exemption | |
n.豁免,免税额,免除 | |
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60 nay | |
adv.不;n.反对票,投反对票者 | |
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61 contrive | |
vt.谋划,策划;设法做到;设计,想出 | |
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62 soothed | |
v.安慰( soothe的过去式和过去分词 );抚慰;使舒服;减轻痛苦 | |
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63 implicate | |
vt.使牵连其中,涉嫌 | |
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64 arraignment | |
n.提问,传讯,责难 | |
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65 placidly | |
adv.平稳地,平静地 | |
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66 titillating | |
adj.使人痒痒的; 使人激动的,令人兴奋的v.使觉得痒( titillate的现在分词 );逗引;激发;使高兴 | |
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67 lulled | |
vt.使镇静,使安静(lull的过去式与过去分词形式) | |
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68 jealousy | |
n.妒忌,嫉妒,猜忌 | |
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69 encroachment | |
n.侵入,蚕食 | |
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70 extenuation | |
n.减轻罪孽的借口;酌情减轻;细 | |
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71 eternity | |
n.不朽,来世;永恒,无穷 | |
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72 plod | |
v.沉重缓慢地走,孜孜地工作 | |
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73 aspersing | |
v.毁坏(名誉),中伤,诽谤( asperse的现在分词 ) | |
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74 impute | |
v.归咎于 | |
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75 suavely | |
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76 allured | |
诱引,吸引( allure的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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77 onward | |
adj.向前的,前进的;adv.向前,前进,在先 | |
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78 ingenuous | |
adj.纯朴的,单纯的;天真的;坦率的 | |
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79 testament | |
n.遗嘱;证明 | |
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80 orientation | |
n.方向,目标;熟悉,适应,情况介绍 | |
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81 thereby | |
adv.因此,从而 | |
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82 mitigates | |
v.减轻,缓和( mitigate的第三人称单数 ) | |
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83 secondly | |
adv.第二,其次 | |
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84 conscientiously | |
adv.凭良心地;认真地,负责尽职地;老老实实 | |
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85 pecuniary | |
adj.金钱的;金钱上的 | |
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