THE QUESTION OF STYLE
In discussing the value of particular books, I have heard people
say--people who were timid about expressing their views of literature
in the presence of literary men: "It may be bad from a literary point
of view, but there are very good things in it." Or: "I dare say
the style is very bad, but really the book is very interesting and
suggestive." Or: "I'm not an expert, and so I never bother my head
about good style. All I ask for is good matter. And when I have got
it, critics may say what they like about the book." And many other
similar remarks, all showing that in the minds of the speakers
there existed a notion that style is something supplementary to,
and distinguishable from, matter; a sort of notion that a writer who
wanted to be classical had first to find and arrange his matter, and
then dress it up elegantly in a costume of style, in order to please
beings called literary critics.
This is a misapprehension. Style cannot be distinguished from matter.
When a writer conceives an idea he conceives it in a form of words.
That form of words constitutes his style, and it is absolutely
governed by the idea. The idea can only exist in words, and it can
only exist in one form of words. You cannot say exactly the same thing
in two different ways. Slightly alter the expression, and you slightly
alter the idea. Surely it is obvious that the expression cannot
be altered without altering the thing expressed! A writer, having
conceived and expressed an idea, may, and probably will, "polish it
up." But what does he polish up? To say that he polishes up his
style is merely to say that he is polishing up his idea, that he has
discovered faults or imperfections in his idea, and is perfecting it.
An idea exists in proportion as it is expressed; it exists when it
is expressed, and not before. It expresses itself. A clear idea is
expressed clearly, and a vague idea vaguely. You need but take your
own case and your own speech. For just as science is the development
of common-sense, so is literature the development of common daily
speech. The difference between science and common-sense is simply one
of degree; similarly with speech and literature. Well, when you "know
what you think," you succeed in saying what you think, in making
yourself understood. When you "don't know what to think,"
your expressive tongue halts. And note how in daily life the
characteristics of your style follow your mood; how tender it is when
you are tender, how violent when you are violent. You have said to
yourself in moments of emotion: "If only I could write--," etc. You
were wrong. You ought to have said: "If only I could _think_--on this
high plane." When you have thought clearly you have never had any
difficulty in saying what you thought, though you may occasionally
have had some difficulty in keeping it to yourself. And when you
cannot express yourself, depend upon it that you have nothing precise
to express, and that what incommodes you is not the vain desire to
express, but the vain desire to _think_ more clearly. All this just to
illustrate how style and matter are co-existent, and inseparable, and
alike.
You cannot have good matter with bad style. Examine the point more
closely. A man wishes to convey a fine idea to you. He employs a form
of words. That form of words is his style. Having read, you say: "Yes,
this idea is fine." The writer has therefore achieved his end. But in
what imaginable circumstances can you say: "Yes, this idea is fine,
but the style is not fine"? The sole medium of communication between
you and the author has been the form of words. The fine idea has
reached you. How? In the words, by the words. Hence the fineness must
be in the words. You may say, superiorly: "He has expressed himself
clumsily, but I can _see_ what he means." By what light? By something
in the words, in the style. That something is fine. Moreover, if the
style is clumsy, are you sure that you can see what he means? You
cannot be quite sure. And at any rate, you cannot see distinctly.
The "matter" is what actually reaches you, and it must necessarily be
affected by the style.
Still further to comprehend what style is, let me ask you to think
of a writer's style exactly as you would think of the gestures and
manners of an acquaintance. You know the man whose demeanour is
"always calm," but whose passions are strong. How do you know that his
passions are strong? Because he "gives them away" by some small, but
important, part of his demeanour, such as the twitching of a lip or
the whitening of the knuckles caused by clenching the hand. In other
words, his demeanour, fundamentally, is not calm. You know the man
who is always "smoothly polite and agreeable," but who affects you
unpleasantly. Why does he affect you unpleasantly? Because he is
tedious, and therefore disagreeable, and because his politeness is
not real politeness. You know the man who is awkward, shy, clumsy, but
who, nevertheless, impresses you with a sense of dignity and force.
Why? Because mingled with that awkwardness and so forth _is_ dignity.
You know the blunt, rough fellow whom you instinctively guess to be
affectionate--because there is "something in his tone" or "something
in his eyes." In every instance the demeanour, while perhaps seeming
to be contrary to the character, is really in accord with it. The
demeanour never contradicts the character. It is one part of the
character that contradicts another part of the character. For, after
all, the blunt man _is_ blunt, and the awkward man _is_ awkward, and
these characteristics are defects. The demeanour merely expresses
them. The two men would be better if, while conserving their good
qualities, they had the superficial attributes of smoothness and
agreeableness possessed by the gentleman who is unpleasant to you. And
as regards this latter, it is not his superficial attributes which are
unpleasant to you; but his other qualities. In the end the character
is shown in the demeanour; and the demeanour is a consequence of the
character and resembles the character. So with style and matter.
You may argue that the blunt, rough man's demeanour is unfair to his
tenderness. I do not think so. For his churlishness is really
very trying and painful, even to the man's wife, though a moment's
tenderness will make her and you forget it. The man really is
churlish, and much more often than he is tender. His demeanour is
merely just to his character. So, when a writer annoys you for ten
pages and then enchants you for ten lines, you must not explode
against his style. You must not say that his style won't let his
matter "come out." You must remember the churlish, tender man. The
more you reflect, the more clearly you will see that faults and
excellences of style are faults and excellences of matter itself.
One of the most striking illustrations of this neglected truth is
Thomas Carlyle. How often has it been said that Carlyle's matter
is marred by the harshness and the eccentricities of his style? But
Carlyle's matter is harsh and eccentric to precisely the same degree
as his style is harsh and eccentric. Carlyle was harsh and eccentric.
His behaviour was frequently ridiculous, if it were not abominable.
His judgments were often extremely bizarre. When you read one of
Carlyle's fierce diatribes, you say to yourself: "This is splendid.
The man's enthusiasm for justice and truth is glorious." But you also
say: "He is a little unjust and a little untruthful. He goes too far.
He lashes too hard." These things are not the style; they are the
matter. And when, as in his greatest moments, he is emotional and
restrained at once, you say: "This is the real Carlyle." Kindly notice
how perfect the style has become! No harshnesses or eccentricities
now! And if that particular matter is the "real" Carlyle, then that
particular style is Carlyle's "real" style. But when you say "real"
you would more properly say "best." "This is the best Carlyle." If
Carlyle had always been at his best he would have counted among the
supreme geniuses of the world. But he was a mixture. His style is the
expression of the mixture. The faults are only in the style because
they are in the matter.
You will find that, in classical literature, the style always follows
the mood of the matter. Thus, Charles Lamb's essay on _Dream Children_
begins quite simply, in a calm, narrative manner, enlivened by a
certain quippishness concerning the children. The style is grave when
great-grandmother Field is the subject, and when the author passes
to a rather elaborate impression of the picturesque old mansion it
becomes as it were consciously beautiful. This beauty is intensified
in the description of the still more beautiful garden. But the real
dividing point of the essay occurs when Lamb approaches his elder
brother. He unmistakably marks the point with the phrase: "_Then, in
somewhat a more heightened tone_, I told how," etc. Henceforward the
style increases in fervour and in solemnity until the culmination of
the essay is reached: "And while I stood gazing, both the children
gradually grew fainter to my view, receding and still receding till
nothing at last but two mournful features were seen in the uttermost
distance, which, without speech, strangely impressed upon me the
effects of speech...." Throughout, the style is governed by the
matter. "Well," you say, "of course it is. It couldn't be otherwise.
If it were otherwise it would be ridiculous. A man who made love as
though he were preaching a sermon, or a man who preached a sermon as
though he were teasing schoolboys, or a man who described a death as
though he were describing a practical joke, must necessarily be either
an ass or a lunatic." Just so. You have put it in a nutshell. You have
disposed of the problem of style so far as it can be disposed of.
But what do those people mean who say: "I read such and such an author
for the beauty of his style alone"? Personally, I do not clearly know
what they mean (and I have never been able to get them to explain),
unless they mean that they read for the beauty of sound alone. When
you read a book there are only three things of which you may be
conscious: (1) The significance of the words, which is inseparably
bound up with the thought. (2) The look of the printed words on the
page--I do not suppose that anybody reads any author for the visual
beauty of the words on the page. (3) The sound of the words, either
actually uttered or imagined by the brain to be uttered. Now it is
indubitable that words differ in beauty of sound. To my mind one
of the most beautiful words in the English language is "pavement."
Enunciate it, study its sound, and see what you think. It is also
indubitable that certain combinations of words have a more beautiful
sound than certain other combinations. Thus Tennyson held that the
most beautiful line he ever wrote was:
The mellow ouzel fluting in the elm.
Perhaps, as sound, it was. Assuredly it makes a beautiful succession
of sounds, and recalls the bird-sounds which it is intended to
describe. But does it live in the memory as one of the rare great
Tennysonian lines? It does not. It has charm, but the charm is merely
curious or pretty. A whole poem composed of lines with no better
recommendation than that line has would remain merely curious or
pretty. It would not permanently interest. It would be as insipid as a
pretty woman who had nothing behind her prettiness. It would not live.
One may remark in this connection how the merely verbal felicities of
Tennyson have lost our esteem. Who will now proclaim the _Idylls of
the King_ as a masterpiece? Of the thousands of lines written by
him which please the ear, only those survive of which the matter is
charged with emotion. No! As regards the man who professes to read an
author "for his style alone," I am inclined to think either that he
will soon get sick of that author, or that he is deceiving himself and
means the author's general temperament--not the author's verbal style,
but a peculiar quality which runs through all the matter written by
the author. Just as one may like a man for something which is always
coming out of him, which one cannot define, and which is of the very
essence of the man.
In judging the style of an author, you must employ the same canons
as you use in judging men. If you do this you will not be tempted
to attach importance to trifles that are negligible. There can be no
lasting friendship without respect. If an author's style is such
that you cannot _respect_ it, then you may be sure that, despite
any present pleasure which you may obtain from that author, there is
something wrong with his matter, and that the pleasure will soon cloy.
You must examine your sentiments towards an author. If when you have
read an author you are pleased, without being conscious of aught but
his mellifluousness, just conceive what your feelings would be after
spending a month's holiday with a merely mellifluous man. If an
author's style has pleased you, but done nothing except make you
giggle, then reflect upon the ultimate tediousness of the man who can
do nothing but jest. On the other hand, if you are impressed by what
an author has said to you, but are aware of verbal clumsinesses in his
work, you need worry about his "bad style" exactly as much and exactly
as little as you would worry about the manners of a kindhearted,
keen-brained friend who was dangerous to carpets with a tea-cup in his
hand. The friend's antics in a drawing-room are somewhat regrettable,
but you would not say of him that his manners were bad. Again, if
an author's style dazzles you instantly and blinds you to everything
except its brilliant self, ask your soul, before you begin to admire
his matter, what would be your final opinion of a man who at the first
meeting fired his personality into you like a broadside. Reflect
that, as a rule, the people whom you have come to esteem communicated
themselves to you gradually, that they did not begin the entertainment
with fireworks. In short, look at literature as you would look at
life, and you cannot fail to perceive that, essentially, the style
is the man. Decidedly you will never assert that you care nothing for
style, that your enjoyment of an author's matter is unaffected by his
style. And you will never assert, either, that style alone suffices
for you.
If you are undecided upon a question of style, whether leaning to
the favourable or to the unfavourable, the most prudent course is to
forget that literary style exists. For, indeed, as style is understood
by most people who have not analysed their impressions under the
influence of literature, there _is_ no such thing as literary style.
You cannot divide literature into two elements and say: This is matter
and that style. Further, the significance and the worth of
literature are to be comprehended and assessed in the same way as the
significance and the worth of any other phenomenon: by the exercise
of common-sense. Common-sense will tell you that nobody, not even a
genius, can be simultaneously vulgar and distinguished, or beautiful
and ugly, or precise and vague, or tender and harsh. And common-sense
will therefore tell you that to try to set up vital contradictions
between matter and style is absurd. When there is a superficial
contradiction, one of the two mutually-contradicting qualities is of
far less importance than the other. If you refer literature to the
standards of life, common-sense will at once decide which quality
should count heaviest in your esteem. You will be in no danger of
weighing a mere maladroitness of manner against a fine trait of
character, or of letting a graceful deportment blind you to a
fundamental vacuity. When in doubt, ignore style, and think of the
matter as you would think of an individual.