It is noticeable that of nearly all our contemporary writers it is true that their best work was done first in obscurity. With success came easy writing and slop literature for the bag-men of the syndicates. This is the most severe criticism that can be made on them, for a writer who respects himself should strive to continue developing until forty. It is a pity some of our writers cannot meet a bad end early in life, for in that case they would leave a fame unspoiled and unsmirched with endless scamp work done for the speculators in literary reputations.
If, perhaps, two-thirds of the present brood of fiction writers had died, or been cut off in their first flush, we should have just so much good literature without being compelled to sift it out of much “boomed” rubbish.
Max Nordau claims that the writers of today are degenerates. As far as our literature is concerned, the majority of our popular writers have no such valid claim to serious consideration. It is conceivable that degenerates may produce priceless and imperishable literature. Our writers are mostly merely sober and respectable tinkers, and they imperil the intellectual development of the race by coddling themselves so well that they threaten to live as long as Queen Victoria.
Indeed the glut of balderdash in the literary market has become so serious and critical that it seems to me some heroic measure is necessary. I humbly suggest a measure that would, in a radical and effective manner, meet the situation. It is this: that a Censorship of Literature should be established in connection with the department of justice. The sole object of the censorship would be the promotion of the best interests of literature. The censorship would take the delinquents in hand, with a stern and implacable majesty of law, that would indeed put a premium on literary ambition and tempt only the finest spirits and wits into the field.
The idea is this: At forty years of age every successful literary man should be “removed”—and by removal we imply the full significance of the picturesque Oriental figure. To obviate all chances, it would be fairly understood that all literary careers ended at forty. There would be no alternative of banishment or imprisonment. It would be death in every case. This would not be done to embarrass the production of good literature, no matter how great the production might become, for the world is big enough, and humanity is slow and dull enough to accommodate all the good literature the centuries may bring forth. But the measure is needed to prevent authors from destroying the good influence of their first honest and strenuous work and their own reputations. And this fate would not deter the finest minds, for they would be content to die with fame secure. But just think of the beneficial and deterrent effect of such an institution on the horde of scribbling men and women who bury all the good literature of our time under their huge mountain of silly novels!
Jonathan Penn.
A FANTASIE OF DREAMS.
Dreams of Death,