This would even up matters a little. I do not propose any reform, and I should not dare to mention any of the remarkable modern instances of success in literature by persons who produce much fiction which is not literature. They are sufficiently glaring to advertise themselves among book lovers. But I do want to lead a forlorn hope to re-establish some sort of social and moral, if not intellectual, equilibrium between poor handicapped brains and overwhelming brass. At the present moment the calling of literature is the caravan or the refuge of the charlatan, the demagogue, the weakminded, the social fop, the hysterical and the notorious. My aim in this modest proposal is simply to remove a few obsolete superstitions and traditions of literary dignity that, once swept away, will leave all competitors for fame on the same footing. Perhaps we may then hope to see the few writers who are marred with a simple equipment of inspiration and talent enjoy some sort of equality with those who bring to the conquest of literature the overwhelming advantages of sex, brass, social authority and money.
Let us first touch upon certain aspects of criticism and publicity in the Literary Show. It will then be perfectly clear to the most prejudiced reader—and I expect prejudice in this wicked world—that my suggestion of a Sunday Fair for Literature is the most feasible and dignified expedient that can now be adopted, if any of us are to continue the struggle for some literary achievement and standard and some genuine thought in our modern Babel.
It has always been a question in the mind of the present writer whether most men, that is, sane men, do not actually know, in their own hearts, just about what they stand for absolutely in life, or whether saints and rogues, wise and unwise, we are all deluded about ourselves. Heine, who wrote with so much charm about himself, and could scarcely have found a more interesting subject, was of the opinion that one cannot tell the truth about one’s self; and, since the greater portion of mankind is of this opinion, autobiography is the most irresistible form of literature.
But it is unfortunate there is not more division of opinion on the subject, because, while this view may add to the interest of autobiography, it weakens its weight and authority; and there are good reasons for supposing that one of the necessary “short cuts” of contemporary literature of the near future will be the brief critical autobiography.
There is not a mother’s son of us in the whole scribbling guild, great or small, puffed or starved, can get his fill of praise; for there are too many of us scribbling in these latter years, and that man is fortunate who is famous for a whole season. There are but few who can reasonably hope for a life in the memory of mankind as long as Mumm’s champagne. It may be there are but few of us deserve it. Such scraps of comfort as occasionally fall to our lot are almost invariably disappointing, for our friends are perversely addicted to flattering us in good, round, general terms, which save thought and lack positiveness, or else they appreciate us for the very qualities it is perfectly evident we do not possess in the least degree. But this is the inevitable result of the production of literature by lightning-like machinery working day and night.
All these sugared things which authors crave can only be supplied by other writers who, aside from the necessity of earning a livelihood, are plagued with private personal ambitions of their own; and if there is any sort of drudgery more tedious than the reviewing of other people’s literature, I should like to know what it is. Those who have to earn precarious bread by the pen, somehow or other, are so busy reviewing and scribbling on topical matters that they have absolutely no time for reading, and so very few writers out of the great multitude receive more than a few perfunctory words of praise or indifferent comment, and are then straightway forgotten. With the ever increasing tide of books, literary criticism tends to become more and more a mere matter of description and catalogueing, and as this is obviously inadequate to satisfy all the demands of those who would live in the public eye, we have latterly seen the development of that interesting personage, the psychological interviewer.
Even this does not meet the exigencies of an overcrowded market. The psychological interviewer is only occupied with those whose names will help to sell his wares. The secret charm of the psychological interview, when it is at all well done, is that it enables an author to supplement the necessarily perfunctory reviewing of the day with his own keener critical insight into the less obvious excellent qualities of his work. This done with a fine conscientious egotism and some show of candor, carries as much weight with liberal and unprejudiced minds as rare and subtle criticism. In fact, it is autobiography, which the interviewer breaks up into more or less dramatic dialogue.
There are still thousands of us who are so obscure and unfortunate as to be untroubled by the interviewers, and, to make matters worse, are often tabooed by the critics. But since the calling of letters is no more restricted to the “deserving” and the “good” than any other, these also desire that publicity which helps to solve the problem of bread and butter. And so I predict that the pressure of competition in the Literary Show, and the exigencies of critical writing, often colored, if not inspired, by counting-house interests, will soon bring into current literature what I have here termed the critical autobiography. In this way we may get much good literature, for the dullest man is at his best when writing about himself. A man can then be perfectly independent, and still be heralded in print as one of the potent forces and geniuses of his day. The plan has some advantages over log-rolling, which sometimes involves unavoidable and ludicrous derogatory offices, that embarrass one’s reputation as a wit and a critic of discernment.
It is also really time that the writers of books learned to take something of the same vulgar view of them which those who make their living in dealing in them do, and that is to regard them when finally out of the brain and put into material shape merely as merchandise. It is this looking upon them as “children” that has made the poets the spoil of cunning men, and kept them daft and poor.