The matter which appears in the following pages was originally
contributed, in the shape of a series of articles under the general
title of "Some Impressions of My Elders," to the _North American
Review_ at intervals during the years 1920 and 1921. The order in which
the articles appear in this book is different from the order in which
they appeared in the _Review_: _this_ order is alphabetical whereas
_that_ was capricious. Some excisions and some additions have been made
to them and I hope that I have evaded the danger which besets all those
who reprint their journalism in book form, the danger of repetitions.
Why I reprint them at all is a point on which I am not able to offer
conclusive explanations. I have reached that period of my life when
my wish is rather _not_ to write a book than to write one, and I have
lost all the cheery conceit which caused me in my youth to feel that
anything I wrote ought to be published in a handsome volume. Indeed,
when I think of the great quantity of books there already are in this
world, it seems to me a sign of hopeless irresponsibility to add to
their number. There are so many books that ought to be read, but never
can be read because there is not enough time for any of us to do so,
that no author can plead justification for printing a book which does
not come within the catalogue of those that ought to be read unless he
needs the money which, presumably, he will get for it. I cannot urge
even that plea, for I have few needs and they are easily satisfied. I
have never been afflicted with the mania for owning things, as Walt
Whitman calls it, and therefore have no wish to accumulate either goods
or money. Were it not for the insistence of some of my friends, I do
not suppose I should issue this book to the public at all. We are too
prone, we scribblers, to put our casual writings between the covers
of a book, when regard for our craft would compel us to reserve that
dignity for our greatest efforts; and I have feared for several years
now to be one of these offenders. And yet, one likes to have an array
of books on a shelf and be able to say, "I wrote those." The profession
of writing gives degree and reputation to a man which is often greater
than his due, and people of ability will listen respectfully to the
opinions of a lesser person than themselves merely because he (or even
she) has printed a book. Many clever men and women actually paid good
American money to hear me talk on odds and ends of subjects, although
they probably had views on them that were at least as sound as mine
and no doubt a great deal sounder. I am afraid of this tribute to the
author. It may make us, a much assorted crowd, esteem ourselves more
highly than we are naturally prone to do. The mere fact that a man
has contracted a profitable habit of putting words together does not
entitle him to more of the world's respect that is due to one who has
contracted the habit of putting bits of metal together and calling the
result a motor-car. I do not know why a man who writes books should
regard himself as a better man than one who makes butter. Far less do
I know why the man who makes butter should consent to believe that he
is less worthy than the man who makes books. But undoubtedly some such
superstition fills the minds of most of us. When a man or woman of
ordinary appearance and uninteresting speech comes into our presence,
we say "How do you do!" and turn away; but when we are informed that
this same person has written a novel, immediately we become interested
and turn again to him or her in the expectation that something
profoundly illuminating will be said to us. Experience does not cure us
of that delusive hope. We do not prick up our ears when a man who owns
the largest motor-car factory in the world comes into our presence,
and we yawn in the face of a railway director. Yet either of these may
be far more entertaining company than any author. It is true that the
author is presumably more imaginative than the owner of the factory or
the president of the railroad, and perhaps the instinctive tribute paid
by mankind to the author, even when mankind omits to buy his books,
is a recognition of the value of imagination to human life. As such I
gladly accept it. Nevertheless, I could wish for more discrimination
in these tributes. On the whole, I would prefer to see our authors
neglected than over-estimated. No one on earth and probably no one in
heaven can prevent an author from making books while he has breath in
his body and energy in his brain and fingers. Therefore, neglect will
not greatly harm him. But too much praise, too much consideration of
his views, above all, too much profit from his work, will make a sad
mess of an excellent writer. I tell myself sometimes that no author
should be praised until he is dead, though he might occasionally be
dispraised during his lifetime. We should thus save our authors, though
there is no certainty in this, from excess of vanity. Let Shakespeare's
reputation grow to legendary proportions when he is safely within his
grave, but do not, if you desire the best that is in him, let him be
often or much praised while he is alive. We have come to a period of
time when authors feel that they must write so many books each year.
But I would have an author publish a book only when the compulsion
to publish it becomes greater than he can resist. Books would not
necessarily be better, but they would certainly be fewer, and they
might be better.