| CRITICISM
after all is little more than discovery. It is like
science in that. Their main business is to find the
truth. To science the multiform world of appearances
is a complex, fascinating, and inexplicable creation,
with something behind it, — purpose, reason, mind,
— which science seeks to understand. To criticism
the world of art and literature is just a mimic creation,
the work of cunning hands of many ages, a contrivance
of human intelligence, behind which lurks and hides
the immortal spirit of man.
The scientist or philosopher,
with an unflinching and unquenchable curiosity, asks
of [Page 161] the universe, “Who
goes there behind the shadowy substance? What Presence
inhabits these fleeting forms, which make the lovely
earth? Where dwells the Eternal, and what like is the
Unchanging, if any Unchanging or Eternal there be?”
In his smaller way the critic stands before a work of
art, inquiring in like spirit, “What manner of
man was behind this thing? What soul found vent in this
shape of beauty? What comprehending being lent a passing
permanence to its own aspirations in this scrap of art?”
The
answer to the critic is never easy. The answer to the
scientists will perhaps never be possible. Yet something
of the seriousness of philosophic science should always
invest the business of criticism. Discovery, exposition,
revelation, — that is the task of the critic.
To find the man behind the book, the man behind the
painting, the man behind the music, to understand him
with sympathy and intelligence and respect; that is
the first duty of criticism. And its second duty is
to help others [Page 162] to understand
him. These two aims of criticism imply a patience, an
indulgence, and a modest regard for others, not always
found in the critic as he is. They would make him think
of his artist first of all, of the public next, and
last of himself, with his own pet theories and aversions.
Unhappily it is common to invert this order of procedure,
and the critic is so engrossed with exhibiting his own
cleverness that the true subject of his exposition is
eclipsed. Criticism is a fine art, of course; and as
such it very properly embodies the personal bias of
the critic. As a science, however, its prime regard
must be for its subject.
The
man behind the book is not easy to discover. To meet
the author, to dine with him, to receive his autograph,
to photograph him carefully posed in his workshop, to
note the style of his collar, the set of his coat, this
is not to know the man behind the book. These things
only give us a glimpse of a human being embarrassed
by publicity and [Page 163] shrinking
from unwarranted scrutiny. Any real knowledge of the
man behind the book is much more difficult and requires
a procedure much more subtle, and is apt to come casually
at unexpected moments. For it is not merely the man
apart from his work we wish to know. Having created
anything in art, the creator is no longer the same;
some part of him has gone into the making of his work;
a large part of his real self is there, his deepest
convictions, his sincerest purpose, his finest taste.
It is this underlying personality which is so interesting
and so profitable an object of study. How the world
impressed him, with what fortitude or timorousness he
fronted life, what mark sorrow left upon him, how grateful
he was for joy, where he failed and where he was strong,
and whether his ideals, if made practical and put into
effect, would help or hinder us in the difficult business
of living. In short, the object of criticism is to know
the man, just as his object as an artist was to make
himself known. Not [Page 164] the mere
making of himself, known to fame, but the making of
himself known in his work, in the adequate expression
of himself, — this is the ambition of the artist.
If the passion for creation is in him, it will not concern
him much whether men recognize him widely or not; his
chief anxiety will be to reveal his finer inner self
in his art, whatever that may be; and none will be so
conscious as himself of any shortcoming or failure in
that delicate, almost impossible, achievement.
Every
great writer is a friend of all the world, one whom
we may come to know, who can aid us with solace and
counsel and entertainment. In his books he has revealed
himself, and in them we make his acquaintance. This
is the purpose of serious reading. Not merely to be
delighted with beauty of style; not merely to be informed
and made wise; not merely to be encouraged and ennobled
in spirit; but to receive an impetus in all these directions.
Such is the object of culture. To know a good book is
to know a good man. [Page 165] To be
influenced by a trivial, or ignoble, or false book,
is to associate with an unworthy companion, and to suffer
the inevitable detriment. For the book, like the man,
must be so true that it convinces our reason and satisfies
our curiosity; it must be so beautiful that it fascinates
and delights our taste; it must be so spirited and right-minded
that it enlists our best sympathy and stirs our more
humane emotions. A good book, like a good comrade, is
one that leaves us happier or better off in any way
for having known it. A bad book is one that leaves us
the poorer, either by confusing our reason with what
is not true, or by debasing our taste with what is ugly,
or by offending our spirit with what is evil. For a
book must always appeal to us in these three ways, and
be judged by these three tests.
Then,
too, it is only the man behind the book that makes the
book worth reading. And what worthless things often
masquerade under that noble name! Factory-made abominations
[Page 166] of cloth and paper, without
a shadow of soul or sincerity in them from beginning
to end! You perceive at once that the author (Heaven
forgive him!) went about to make a contrivance which
should fool the guileless public, a book in nothing
but appearance, a conscious cheat. The real book has
vitality, it convinces and moves and entrances us by
its indubitable veracity. Its maker was not concerned
to produce an effect, but to free his mind and give
vent to his feeling. Inevitably the result of his effort
bears the stamp of his own personality. The book is
the living image of the man. That is why real books
have a power over us. It is the individuality that counts.
And wherever there is a false note, something that the
writer did not truly believe and intimately feel, be
sure the reader will be aware of the discrepancy, and
the book will fail to seem natural — it will not
be “convincing,” as we say in the jargon
of the studios. On the other hand, let a book be never
so crude and ill written, if the writer [Page
167] was in earnest and put his heart and mind
into the work, that book will have merit and some quality
at least of an actual creation. It will have had a creator
behind it — a veritable maker, not a mere manipulator;
and the vitality it received from him it will in turn
impart to others. This is the true life of a book, without
which the making of volumes becomes a contemptible trade,
and literature a lost art. [Page 168]
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