It has long been my conviction that the most graceful function of
authorship is the writing of prefaces. What is more pleasant than
dashing off those few pages of genial introduction after all the dreary
months of spading at the text? A paragraph or two as to the intentions
of the book; allusions to the unexpected difficulties encountered during
composition; neatly phrased gratitude to eminent friends who have given
gracious assistance; and a touching allusion to the Critic on the Hearth
who has done the indexing--one of the trials of the wives of literary
men not mentioned by Mrs. Andrew Lang in her pleasant essay on that
topic. A pious wish to receive criticisms "in case a second edition
should be called for"; your address, and the date, add a homely touch at
the end.
How delightful this bit of pleasant intimacy after the real toil is
over! It is like paterfamilias coming out of his house at dusk, after
the hard day's work, to read his newspaper on the doorstep. Or it may be
a bit of superb gesturing. No book is complete without a preface. Better
a preface without a book....
Many men have written books without prefaces. But not many have written
prefaces without books. And yet I am convinced it is one of the subtlest
pleasures. I have planned several books, not yet written; but the
prefaces are all ready this many a day. Let me show you the sort of
thing I mean.