“I have not read this author’s books, and if I have read them I have forgotten what they were about.”
These words are reported as having been uttered in our midst not a hundred years ago, publicly, from the seat of justice, by a civic1 magistrate2. The words of our municipal rulers have a solemnity and importance far above the words of other mortals, because our municipal rulers more than any other variety of our governors and masters represent the average wisdom, temperament3, sense and virtue4 of the community. This generalisation, it ought to be promptly5 said in the interests of eternal justice (and recent friendship), does not apply to the United States of America. There, if one may believe the long and helpless indignations of their daily and weekly Press, the majority of municipal rulers appear to be thieves of a particularly irrepressible sort. But this by the way. My concern is with a statement issuing from the average temperament and the average wisdom of a great and wealthy community, and uttered by a civic magistrate obviously without fear and without reproach.
I confess I am pleased with his temper, which is that of prudence6. “I have not read the books,” he says, and immediately he adds, “and if I have read them I have forgotten.” This is excellent caution. And I like his style: it is unartificial and bears the stamp of manly7 sincerity8. As a reported piece of prose this declaration is easy to read and not difficult to believe. Many books have not been read; still more have been forgotten. As a piece of civic oratory9 this declaration is strikingly effective. Calculated to fall in with the bent10 of the popular mind, so familiar with all forms of forgetfulness, it has also the power to stir up a subtle emotion while it starts a train of thought — and what greater force can be expected from human speech? But it is in naturalness that this declaration is perfectly11 delightful12, for there is nothing more natural than for a grave City Father to forget what the books he has read once — long ago — in his giddy youth maybe — were about.
And the books in question are novels, or, at any rate, were written as novels. I proceed thus cautiously (following my illustrious example) because being without fear and desiring to remain as far as possible without reproach, I confess at once that I have not read them.
I have not; and of the million persons or more who are said to have read them, I never met one yet with the talent of lucid13 exposition sufficiently14 developed to give me a connected account of what they are about. But they are books, part and parcel of humanity, and as such, in their ever increasing, jostling multitude, they are worthy15 of regard, admiration16, and compassion17.
Especially of compassion. It has been said a long time ago that books have their fate. They have, and it is very much like the destiny of man. They share with us the great incertitude18 of ignominy or glory — of severe justice and senseless persecution19 — of calumny20 and misunderstanding — the shame of undeserved success. Of all the inanimate objects, of all men’s creations, books are the nearest to us, for they contain our very thought, our ambitions, our indignations, our illusions, our fidelity21 to truth, and our persistent22 leaning towards error. But most of all they resemble us in their precarious23 hold on life. A bridge constructed according to the rules of the art of bridge-building is certain of a long, honourable24 and useful career. But a book as good in its way as the bridge may perish obscurely on the very day of its birth. The art of their creators is not sufficient to give them more than a moment of life. Of the books born from the restlessness, the inspiration, and the vanity of human minds, those that the Muses25 would love best lie more than all others under the menace of an early death. Sometimes their defects will save them. Sometimes a book fair to see may — to use a lofty expression — have no individual soul. Obviously a book of that sort cannot die. It can only crumble26 into dust. But the best of books drawing sustenance27 from the sympathy and memory of men have lived on the brink28 of destruction, for men’s memories are short, and their sympathy is, we must admit, a very fluctuating, unprincipled emotion.
No secret of eternal life for our books can be found amongst the formulas of art, any more than for our bodies in a prescribed combination of drugs. This is not because some books are not worthy of enduring life, but because the formulas of art are dependent on things variable, unstable29 and untrustworthy; on human sympathies, on prejudices, on likes and dislikes, on the sense of virtue and the sense of propriety30, on beliefs and theories that, indestructible in themselves, always change their form — often in the lifetime of one fleeting31 generation.
2
Of all books, novels, which the Muses should love, make a serious claim on our compassion. The art of the novelist is simple. At the same time it is the most elusive32 of all creative arts, the most liable to be obscured by the scruples33 of its servants and votaries34, the one pre-eminently destined35 to bring trouble to the mind and the heart of the artist. After all, the creation of a world is not a small undertaking36 except perhaps to the divinely gifted. In truth every novelist must begin by creating for himself a world, great or little, in which he can honestly believe. This world cannot be made otherwise than in his own image: it is fated to remain individual and a little mysterious, and yet it must resemble something already familiar to the experience, the thoughts and the sensations of his readers. At the heart of fiction, even the least worthy of the name, some sort of truth can be found — if only the truth of a childish theatrical37 ardour in the game of life, as in the novels of Dumas the father. But the fair truth of human delicacy38 can be found in Mr. Henry James’s novels; and the comical, appalling39 truth of human rapacity40 let loose amongst the spoils of existence lives in the monstrous41 world created by Balzac. The pursuit of happiness by means lawful42 and unlawful, through resignation or revolt, by the clever manipulation of conventions or by solemn hanging on to the skirts of the latest scientific theory, is the only theme that can be legitimately43 developed by the novelist who is the chronicler of the adventures of mankind amongst the dangers of the kingdom of the earth. And the kingdom of this earth itself, the ground upon which his individualities stand, stumble, or die, must enter into his scheme of faithful record. To encompass45 all this in one harmonious46 conception is a great feat47; and even to attempt it deliberately48 with serious intention, not from the senseless prompting of an ignorant heart, is an honourable ambition. For it requires some courage to step in calmly where fools may be eager to rush. As a distinguished49 and successful French novelist once observed of fiction, “C’est un art trop difficile.”
It is natural that the novelist should doubt his ability to cope with his task. He imagines it more gigantic than it is. And yet literary creation being only one of the legitimate44 forms of human activity has no value but on the condition of not excluding the fullest recognition of all the more distinct forms of action. This condition is sometimes forgotten by the man of letters, who often, especially in his youth, is inclined to lay a claim of exclusive superiority for his own amongst all the other tasks of the human mind. The mass of verse and prose may glimmer50 here and there with the glow of a divine spark, but in the sum of human effort it has no special importance. There is no justificative formula for its existence any more than for any other artistic51 achievement. With the rest of them it is destined to be forgotten, without, perhaps, leaving the faintest trace. Where a novelist has an advantage over the workers in other fields of thought is in his privilege of freedom — the freedom of expression and the freedom of confessing his innermost beliefs — which should console him for the hard slavery of the pen.
3.
Liberty of imagination should be the most precious possession of a novelist. To try voluntarily to discover the fettering52 dogmas of some romantic, realistic, or naturalistic creed53 in the free work of its own inspiration, is a trick worthy of human perverseness54 which, after inventing an absurdity55, endeavours to find for it a pedigree of distinguished ancestors. It is a weakness of inferior minds when it is not the cunning device of those who, uncertain of their talent, would seek to add lustre56 to it by the authority of a school. Such, for instance, are the high priests who have proclaimed Stendhal for a prophet of Naturalism. But Stendhal himself would have accepted no limitation of his freedom. Stendhal’s mind was of the first order. His spirit above must be raging with a peculiarly Stendhalesque scorn and indignation. For the truth is that more than one kind of intellectual cowardice57 hides behind the literary formulas. And Stendhal was pre-eminently courageous58. He wrote his two great novels, which so few people have read, in a spirit of fearless liberty.
It must not be supposed that I claim for the artist in fiction the freedom of moral Nihilism. I would require from him many acts of faith of which the first would be the cherishing of an undying hope; and hope, it will not be contested, implies all the piety59 of effort and renunciation. It is the God-sent form of trust in the magic force and inspiration belonging to the life of this earth. We are inclined to forget that the way of excellence60 is in the intellectual, as distinguished from emotional, humility61. What one feels so hopelessly barren in declared pessimism62 is just its arrogance63. 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. It gives an author — goodness only knows why — an elated sense of his own superiority. And there is nothing more dangerous than such an elation64 to that absolute loyalty65 towards his feelings and sensations an author should keep hold of in his most exalted66 moments of creation.
To be hopeful in an artistic 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. If the flight of imaginative thought may be allowed to rise superior to many moralities current amongst mankind, a novelist who would think himself of a superior essence to other men would miss the first condition of his calling. To have the gift of words is no such great matter. A man furnished with a long-range weapon does not become a hunter or a warrior67 by the mere68 possession of a fire-arm; many other qualities of character and temperament are necessary to make him either one or the other. Of him from whose armoury of phrases one in a hundred thousand may perhaps hit the far-distant and elusive mark of art I would ask that in his dealings with mankind he should be capable of giving a tender recognition to their obscure virtues69. I would not have him impatient with their small failings and scornful of their errors. I would not have him expect too much gratitude70 from that humanity whose fate, as illustrated71 in individuals, it is open to him to depict72 as ridiculous or terrible. I would wish him to look with a large forgiveness at men’s ideas and prejudices, which are by no means the outcome of malevolence73, but depend on their education, their social status, even their professions. The good artist should expect no recognition of his toil74 and no admiration of his genius, because his toil can with difficulty be appraised75 and his genius cannot possibly mean anything to the illiterate76 who, even from the dreadful wisdom of their evoked77 dead, have, so far, culled78 nothing but inanities79 and platitudes80. I would wish him to enlarge his sympathies by patient and loving observation while he grows in mental power. It is in the impartial81 practice of life, if anywhere, that the promise of perfection for his art can be found, rather than in the absurd formulas trying to prescribe this or that particular method of technique or conception. Let him mature the strength of his imagination amongst the things of this earth, which it is his business to cherish and know, and refrain from calling down his inspiration ready-made from some heaven of perfections of which he knows nothing. And I would not grudge82 him the proud illusion that will come sometimes to a writer: the illusion that his achievement has almost equalled the greatness of his dream. For what else could give him the serenity83 and the force to hug to his breast as a thing delightful and human, the virtue, the rectitude and sagacity of his own City, declaring with simple eloquence84 through the mouth of a Conscript Father: “I have not read this author’s books, and if I have read them I have forgotten . . . ”
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1
civic
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| adj.城市的，都市的，市民的，公民的 | |
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magistrate
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| n.地方行政官，地方法官，治安官 | |
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temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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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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promptly
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| adv.及时地，敏捷地 | |
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prudence
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| n.谨慎，精明，节俭 | |
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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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sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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oratory
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| n.演讲术；词藻华丽的言辞 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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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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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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lucid
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| adj.明白易懂的，清晰的，头脑清楚的 | |
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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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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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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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incertitude
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| n.疑惑，不确定 | |
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persecution
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| n. 迫害,烦扰 | |
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calumny
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| n.诽谤，污蔑，中伤 | |
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fidelity
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| n.忠诚，忠实；精确 | |
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persistent
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| adj.坚持不懈的，执意的；持续的 | |
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precarious
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| adj.不安定的，靠不住的；根据不足的 | |
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honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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muses
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| v.沉思，冥想( muse的第三人称单数 )；沉思自语说（某事） | |
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crumble
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| vi.碎裂，崩溃；vt.弄碎，摧毁 | |
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sustenance
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| n.食物，粮食；生活资料；生计 | |
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brink
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| n.(悬崖、河流等的)边缘，边沿 | |
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unstable
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| adj.不稳定的，易变的 | |
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propriety
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| n.正当行为；正当；适当 | |
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fleeting
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| adj.短暂的，飞逝的 | |
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elusive
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| adj.难以表达(捉摸)的；令人困惑的；逃避的 | |
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scruples
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| n.良心上的不安( scruple的名词复数 )；顾虑，顾忌v.感到于心不安，有顾忌( scruple的第三人称单数 ) | |
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votaries
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| n.信徒( votary的名词复数 )；追随者；（天主教）修士；修女 | |
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destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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undertaking
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| n.保证，许诺，事业 | |
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theatrical
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| adj.剧场的，演戏的；做戏似的，做作的 | |
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delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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appalling
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| adj.骇人听闻的，令人震惊的，可怕的 | |
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rapacity
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| n.贪婪，贪心，劫掠的欲望 | |
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monstrous
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| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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lawful
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| adj.法律许可的，守法的，合法的 | |
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legitimately
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| ad.合法地；正当地，合理地 | |
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legitimate
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| adj.合法的，合理的，合乎逻辑的；v.使合法 | |
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encompass
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| vt.围绕，包围；包含，包括；完成 | |
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harmonious
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| adj.和睦的，调和的，和谐的，协调的 | |
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feat
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| n.功绩；武艺，技艺；adj.灵巧的，漂亮的，合适的 | |
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deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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50
glimmer
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| v.发出闪烁的微光；n.微光，微弱的闪光 | |
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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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fettering
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| v.给…上脚镣，束缚( fetter的现在分词 ) | |
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creed
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| n.信条；信念，纲领 | |
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perverseness
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| n. 乖张, 倔强, 顽固 | |
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55
absurdity
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| n.荒谬，愚蠢；谬论 | |
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lustre
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| n.光亮，光泽；荣誉 | |
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cowardice
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| n.胆小，怯懦 | |
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courageous
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| adj.勇敢的，有胆量的 | |
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piety
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| n.虔诚，虔敬 | |
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excellence
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| n.优秀，杰出，(pl.)优点，美德 | |
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humility
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| n.谦逊，谦恭 | |
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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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elation
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| n.兴高采烈，洋洋得意 | |
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loyalty
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| n.忠诚，忠心 | |
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exalted
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| adj.(地位等)高的，崇高的；尊贵的，高尚的 | |
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warrior
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| n.勇士，武士，斗士 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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illustrated
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| adj. 有插图的，列举的 动词illustrate的过去式和过去分词 | |
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depict
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| vt.描画，描绘；描写，描述 | |
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malevolence
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| n.恶意，狠毒 | |
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toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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appraised
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| v.估价( appraise的过去式和过去分词 )；估计；估量；评价 | |
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illiterate
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| adj.文盲的；无知的；n.文盲 | |
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evoked
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| [医]诱发的 | |
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culled
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| v.挑选，剔除( cull的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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inanities
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| n.空洞( inanity的名词复数 )；浅薄；愚蠢；空洞的言行 | |
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platitudes
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| n.平常的话，老生常谈，陈词滥调( platitude的名词复数 )；滥套子 | |
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81
impartial
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| adj.(in,to)公正的，无偏见的 | |
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82
grudge
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| n.不满，怨恨，妒嫉；vt.勉强给，不情愿做 | |
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83
serenity
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| n.宁静，沉着，晴朗 | |
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eloquence
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| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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