CONTENTS
- THE OPINIONATOR
- [The Novel]
- [On Literary Criticism]
- [Stage Illusion]
- [The Matter of Manner]
- [On Reading New Books]
- [Alphabêtes and Border Ruffians]
- [To Train a Writer]
- [As to Cartooning]
- [The S. P. W.]
- [Portraits of Elderly Authors]
- [Wit and Humor]
- [Word Changes and Slang]
- [The Ravages of Shakspearitis]
- [England’s Laureate]
- [Hall Caine on Hall Caining]
- [Visions of the Night]
- THE REVIEWER
- [Edwin Markham’s Poems]
- “[The Kreutzer Sonata]”
- [Emma Frances Dawson]
- [Marie Bashkirtseff]
- [A Poet and His Poem]
- THE CONTROVERSIALIST
- [An Insurrection of the Peasantry]
- [Montagues and Capulets]
- [A Dead Lion]
- [The Short Story]
- [Who are Great?]
- [Poetry and Verse]
- [Thought and Feeling]
- THE TIMOROUS REPORTER
- [The Passing of Satire]
- [Some Disadvantages of Genius]
- [Our Sacrosanct Orthography]
- [The Author as an Opportunity]
- [On Posthumous Renown]
- [The Crime of Inattention]
- [Fetishism]
- [Our Audible Sisters]
- [The New Penology]
- [The Nature of War]
- [How to Grow Great]
- [A War in the Orient]
- [A Just Decision]
- [The Lion’s Den]
- THE MARCH HARE
- [A Flourishing Industry]
- [The Rural Press]
- [To “Elevate the Stage”]
- [Pectolite]
- [La Boulangère]
- [Advice to Old Men]
- [A Dubious Vindication]
- [The Jamaican Mongoose]
THE OPINIONATOR
THE NOVEL
THOSE who read no books but new ones have this much to say for themselves in mitigation of censure: they do not read all the new ones. They can not; with the utmost diligence and devotion—never weary in ill doing—they can not hope to get through one in a hundred. This, I should suppose, must make them unhappy. They probably feel as a small boy of limited capacity would in a country with all the springs running treacle and all the trees loaded with preserved fruits.
The annual output of books in this country alone is something terrible—not fewer, I am told, than from seven thousand to nine thousand. This should be enough to gratify the patriot who “points with pride” to the fact that Americans are a reading people, but does not point with anything to the quality of what they read. There are apparently more novels than anything else, and these have incomparably the largest sales. The “best seller” is always a novel and a bad one.
In my poor judgment there have not been published in any one quarter-century a half dozen novels that posterity will take the trouble to read. It is not to be denied that some are worth reading, for some have been written by great writers; and whatever is written by a great writer is likely to merit attention. But between that which is worth reading and that which was worth writing there is a distinction. For a man who can do great work, to do work that is less great than the best that he can do is not worthwhile, and novel-writing, I hold, does not bring out the best that is in him.
The novel bears the same relation to literature that the panorama bears to painting. With whatever skill and feeling the panorama is painted, it must lack that basic quality in all art, unity, totality of effect. As it can not all be seen at once, its parts must be seen successively, each effacing the one seen before; and at the last there remains no coherent and harmonious memory of the work. It is the same with a story too long to be read with a virgin attention at a single sitting.