“I give it up,” I retorted.
“But Mr. Owen said you would want to interpret everything democratic to me,” Okura ventured on, “and is there not some secret here hidden from me? I fear I am very stupid.”
Democratically, I repeated dully, I could not explain.
“But,” pressed Okura, “‘the world has been made safe for democracy.’ I want so much to understand it. I fear I do not yet understand Newport.”
And he looked at me with his innocent eyes.
THE CRITIC AND THE CRITICIZED
It is the boast of more than one proud author, popular or unpopular, that he never reads any criticism of his own work. He knows from his wife or his sorrowing friends that such criticism exists. Sometimes in hurrying through the newspaper he catches sight of his unforgettable name. Inadvertently he may read on, learning the drift of the comment before he stops himself. But his rule is rigid. He never reads what the critics say about him.
Before an author comes to this admirable self-denial he has usually had some experience of the ill-nature and caprice of critics. Probably he started out in the friendliest spirit. He said to himself, Of course I don’t profess to like criticism. Nobody likes to be criticized. But I hope I am big enough to stand any criticism that is fair and just. No man can grow who is not willing to be criticized, but so long as criticism is helpful, that’s all a man has a right to ask. Is it meant to be helpful? If so, shoot.
After some experience of helpful criticism, it will often occur to the sensitive author that he is not being completely understood. A man’s ego should certainly not stand in the way of criticism, but hasn’t a man a right to his own style and his own personality? What is the use of criticism that is based on the critic’s dislike of the author’s personality? The critic who has a grudge against an author simply because he thinks and feels in a certain way is scarcely likely to be helpful. The author and the critic are not on common ground. And the case is not improved by the very evident intrusion of the critic’s prejudices and limitations. It is perfectly obvious that a man with a bias will see in a book just what he wants to see. If he is a reactionary, he will bolster up his own case. If he is a Bolshevik he will unfailingly bolshevize. So what is the use of reading criticism? The critic merely holds the mirror up to his own nature, when he is not content to reproduce the publisher’s prepared review.
The author goes on wondering, “What does he say about me?” But the disappointments are too many. Once in a blue moon the critic “understands” the author. He manages, that is to say, to do absolutely the right thing by the author’s ego. He strokes it hard and strokes it the right way. After that he points out one or two of the things that are handicapping the author’s creative force, and he shows how easily such handicaps can be removed. This is the helpful, appreciative, perceptive critic. But for one of his kind there are twenty bristling young egoists who want figs to grow on thistles and cabbages to turn into roses, and who blame the epic for not giving them a lyric thrill. These critics, the smart-alecks, have no real interest in the author. They are only interested in themselves. And so, having tackled them in a glow of expectation that has always died into sulky gloom, the author quits reading criticism and satisfies his natural curiosity about himself by calling up the publisher and inquiring after sales.