In the old-fashioned text-book we used to be told that the branch of
learning that was treated was at once an art and a science. Literature
is much more than that. It is an art, a science, a profession, a trade,
and an accident. The literature that is of lasting value is an accident.
It is something that happens. After it has happened, the historical
critics busy themselves in explaining it. But they are not able to
predict the next stroke of genius.
Shelley defines poetry as the record of "the best and happiest moments
of the best and happiest minds." When we are fortunate enough to happen
in upon an author at one of these happy moments, then, as the country
newspaper would say, "a very enjoyable time was had." After we have said
all that can be said about art and craftsmanship, we put our hopes upon
a happy chance. Literature cannot be standardized. We never know how the
most painstaking work may turn out. The most that can be said of the
literary life is what Sancho Panza said of the profession of
knight-errantry: "There is something delightful in going about in
expectation of accidents."
After a meeting in behalf of Social Justice, an eager, distraught young
man met me, in the streets of Boston, and asked:
"You believe in the principle of equality?"
"Yes."
"Don't I then have just as much right to be a genius as Shakespeare
had?"
"Yes."
"Then why ain't I?"