It is with this chastened sense of our limitations that we meet for any
organized attempt at the encouragement of literary productivity. Matthew
Arnold's favorite bit of irreverence in which he seemed to find endless
enjoyment was in twitting the unfortunate Bishop who had said that
"something ought to be done" for the Holy Trinity. It was a
business-like proposition that involved a spiritual incongruity.
A confusion of values is likely to take place when we try to "do
something" for American Literature. It is an object that appeals to the
uplifter who is anxious to "get results." But the difficulty is that if
a piece of writing is literature, it does not need to be uplifted. If it
is not literature, it is likely to be so heavy that you can't lift it.
We have been told that a man by taking thought cannot add a cubit to his
stature. It is certainly true that we cannot add many cubits to our
literary stature. If we could we should all be giants.
When literary men discourse with one another about their art, they often
seem to labor under a weight of responsibility which a friendly outsider
would seek to lighten. They are under the impression that they have left
undone many things which they ought to have done, and that the Public
blames them for their manifold transgressions.
That Great American Novel ought to have been written long ago. There
ought to be more local color and less imitation of European models.
There ought to have been more plain speaking to demonstrate that we are
not squeamish and are not tied to the apron strings of Mrs. Grundy.
There ought to be a literary center and those who are at it ought to
live up to it.
In all this it is assumed that contemporary writers can control the
literary situation.
Let me comfort the over-strained consciences of the members of the
writing fraternity. Your responsibility is not nearly so great as you
imagine.
Literature differs from the other arts in the relation in which the
producer stands to the consumer. Literature can never be made one of the
protected industries. In the Drama the living actor has a complete
monopoly. One might express a preference for Garrick or Booth, but if he
goes to the theater he must take what is set before him. The monopoly of
the singer is not quite so complete as it once was. But until canned
music is improved, most people will prefer to get theirs fresh. In
painting and in sculpture there is more or less competition with the
work of other ages. Yet even here there is a measure of natural
protection. The old masters may be admired, but they are expensive. The
living artist can control a certain market of his own.
There is also a great opportunity for the artist and his friends to
exert pressure. When you go to an exhibition of new paintings, you are
not a free agent. You are aware that the artist or his friends may be in
the vicinity to observe how First Citizen and Second Citizen enjoy the
masterpiece. Conscious of this espionage, you endeavor to look pleased.
You observe a picture which outrages your ideas of the possible. You
mildly remark to a bystander that you have never seen anything like that
before.
"Probably not," he replies, "it is not a picture of any outward scene,
it represents the artist's state of mind."
"O," you reply, "I understand. He is making an exhibition of himself."
It is all so personal that you do not feel like carrying the
investigation further. You take what is set before you and ask no
questions.
But with a book the relation to the producer is altogether different.
You go into your library and shut the door, and you have the same sense
of intellectual freedom that you have when you go into the polling booth
and mark your Australian ballot. You are a sovereign citizen. Nobody can
know what you are reading unless you choose to tell. You snap your
fingers at the critics. In the "tumultuous privacy" of print you enjoy
what you find enjoyable, and let the rest go.
Your mind is a free port. There are no customs house officers to examine
the cargoes that are unladen. The book which has just come from the
press has no advantage over the book that is a century old. In the
matter of legibility the old volume may be preferable, and its price is
less. Whatever choice you make is in the face of the free competition of
all the ages. Literature is the timeless art.
Clever writers who start fashions in the literary world should take
account of this secrecy of the reader's position. It is easy enough to
start a fashion, the difficulty is to get people to follow it. Few
people will follow a fashion except when other people are looking at
them. When they are alone they relapse into something which they enjoy
and which they find comfortable.
The ultimate consumer of literature is therefore inclined to take a
philosophical view of the contentions among literary people, about what
seem to them the violent fluctuations of taste. These fashions come and
go, but the quiet reader is undisturbed. There are enough good books
already printed to last his life-time. Aware of this, he is not alarmed
by the cries of the "calamity howlers" who predict a famine.
From a purely commercial viewpoint, this competition with writers of
all generations is disconcerting. But I do not see that anything can be
done to prevent it. The principle of protection fails. Trades-unionism
offers no remedy. What if all the living authors should join in a
general strike! We tremble to think of the army of strike-breakers that
would rush in from all centuries.
From the literary viewpoint, however, this free competition is very
stimulating and even exciting. To hold our own under free trade
conditions, we must not put all our thought on increasing the output. In
order to meet the free competition to which we are exposed, we must
improve the quality of our work. Perhaps that may be good for us.