The writer’s problem is to reach his fellows, his generation. He is not, under modern conditions, concerned with posterity any more than the lawyer or the merchant. As for that, probably few books of this era will be known by name a hundred years hence; but every man should have a fair chance of getting a hearing in his own generation. As things are at present constituted, a thousand obstacles are placed in the way by other writers in the holy name of morality, style, literary ideals, and every other ingenious trick one writer can devise as a critic and literary tipstaff to keep others from dimming the effulgence of his golden beams. But, pouf! all this anxiety is unnecessary. At least one-half of our contemporary literature, though it is “boomed” and bought at impressive figures, is only passable journalism, and, perhaps, will be thrown aside and forgotten as unreliable data when the journals of today (such as not being printed on wood pulp paper may perchance survive) are treasured as the mirror of our semi-barbaric times.
We are fairly deluged now with cheap Brummagem “literature.” And so I think my Modest Proposal will appeal to all fair minded persons. Let us have an open market in literature, and let the best peddler win. The game of literature as carried on today, is, with a few glorious exceptions, a purely commercial speculation, an enterprise in trade; and there is no need to confuse the issues with a lot of babble about “literary ideals,” and all the rest of it. That is but an artful trick to embarrass rivals in trade. The howl about morality is another old trick, but one—thanks to the beauties of human nature—which only helps to swell the sales of a rival. Literature is now produced to meet the demands of different markets, on the same principle that governs the manufacture of other luxuries and commodities. What is the use of waiting for your rival in trade to announce your excellencies to the world? Human nature works the same in all trades. Ambition preys upon and harasses ambition. Only the cynics of Grub Street, who have no hopes and no ambitions, can be just and impartial critics, and they are in the pinch of necessity. Log-rolling, too, is an imperfect art; some fellows’ logs are so heavy!
Let it once be understood that there is no ideal aim or dignity in the literary market of our day other than to find quick buyers and win the bubble reputation, and why should any man hesitate to use the methods of ordinary commerce to advance his own interests? It is a matter of common sense.
I suggest in all seriousness this idea of a literary Petticoat-Lane Sunday Fair as the best way to develop a national literature in America. And let every man be his own critic, prophet and publisher. It could be held somewhere off the Bowery—a picturesque and appropriate place.
The critical autobiographies on the market would be genuine human documents and great fun. A collection of them would give our epoch everlasting fame. With every man peddling his own wares, like the chapmen of old, the law of the survival of the fittest would probably operate as effectively, and more convincingly, than under existing conditions.
Walter Blackburn Harte.