| THE AUTHOR TO HIS READERS | [3] |
| A. E. (GEORGE WILLIAM RUSSELL) | [25] |
| ARNOLD BENNETT | [61] |
| G. K. CHESTERTON | [90] |
| JOHN GALSWORTHY | [113] |
| GEORGE MOORE | [161] |
| BERNARD SHAW | [189] |
| H. G. WELLS | [240] |
| W. B. YEATS | [264] |
SOME IMPRESSIONS OF MY ELDERS
THE AUTHOR TO HIS READERS
The matter which appears in the following pages was originally contributed, in the shape of a series of articles under the general title of "Some Impressions of My Elders," to the North American Review at intervals during the years 1920 and 1921. The order in which the articles appear in this book is different from the order in which they appeared in the Review: this order is alphabetical whereas that was capricious. Some excisions and some additions have been made to them and I hope that I have evaded the danger which besets all those who reprint their journalism in book form, the danger of repetitions. Why I reprint them at all is a point on which I am not able to offer conclusive explanations. I have reached that period of my life when my wish is rather not to write a book than to write one, and I have lost all the cheery conceit which caused me in my youth to feel that anything I wrote ought to be published in a handsome volume. Indeed, when I think of the great quantity of books there already are in this world, it seems to me a sign of hopeless irresponsibility to add to their number. There are so many books that ought to be read, but never can be read because there is not enough time for any of us to do so, that no author can plead justification for printing a book which does not come within the catalogue of those that ought to be read unless he needs the money which, presumably, he will get for it. I cannot urge even that plea, for I have few needs and they are easily satisfied. I have never been afflicted with the mania for owning things, as Walt Whitman calls it, and therefore have no wish to accumulate either goods or money. Were it not for the insistence of some of my friends, I do not suppose I should issue this book to the public at all. We are too prone, we scribblers, to put our casual writings between the covers of a book, when regard for our craft would compel us to reserve that dignity for our greatest efforts; and I have feared for several years now to be one of these offenders. And yet, one likes to have an array of books on a shelf and be able to say, "I wrote those." The profession of writing gives degree and reputation to a man which is often greater than his due, and people of ability will listen respectfully to the opinions of a lesser person than themselves merely because he (or even she) has printed a book. Many clever men and women actually paid good American money to hear me talk on odds and ends of subjects, although they probably had views on them that were at least as sound as mine and no doubt a great deal sounder. I am afraid of this tribute to the author. It may make us, a much assorted crowd, esteem ourselves more highly than we are naturally prone to do. The mere fact that a man has contracted a profitable habit of putting words together does not entitle him to more of the world's respect that is due to one who has contracted the habit of putting bits of metal together and calling the result a motor-car. I do not know why a man who writes books should regard himself as a better man than one who makes butter. Far less do I know why the man who makes butter should consent to believe that he is less worthy than the man who makes books. But undoubtedly some such superstition fills the minds of most of us. When a man or woman of ordinary appearance and uninteresting speech comes into our presence, we say "How do you do!" and turn away; but when we are informed that this same person has written a novel, immediately we become interested and turn again to him or her in the expectation that something profoundly illuminating will be said to us. Experience does not cure us of that delusive hope. We do not prick up our ears when a man who owns the largest motor-car factory in the world comes into our presence, and we yawn in the face of a railway director. Yet either of these may be far more entertaining company than any author. It is true that the author is presumably more imaginative than the owner of the factory or the president of the railroad, and perhaps the instinctive tribute paid by mankind to the author, even when mankind omits to buy his books, is a recognition of the value of imagination to human life. As such I gladly accept it. Nevertheless, I could wish for more discrimination in these tributes. On the whole, I would prefer to see our authors neglected than over-estimated. No one on earth and probably no one in heaven can prevent an author from making books while he has breath in his body and energy in his brain and fingers. Therefore, neglect will not greatly harm him. But too much praise, too much consideration of his views, above all, too much profit from his work, will make a sad mess of an excellent writer. I tell myself sometimes that no author should be praised until he is dead, though he might occasionally be dispraised during his lifetime. We should thus save our authors, though there is no certainty in this, from excess of vanity. Let Shakespeare's reputation grow to legendary proportions when he is safely within his grave, but do not, if you desire the best that is in him, let him be often or much praised while he is alive. We have come to a period of time when authors feel that they must write so many books each year. But I would have an author publish a book only when the compulsion to publish it becomes greater than he can resist. Books would not necessarily be better, but they would certainly be fewer, and they might be better.