TŌKYŌ, June, 1898.
MY DEAR ŌTANI,--I am pleased to hear that the incident was
imaginary,--because this gives me a higher idea of your sense of art.
True literary art consists very largely in skilful combination of real
or possible facts in an imaginary succession. Literature artistic never
can be raw truth, any more than a photograph can be compared with a
painting. Here is a little sentence from one of the greatest of modern
French writers:--
"_L'art n'a pas la vérité pour objet._ Il faut demander la vérité aux
Sciences, parce qu'elle est leur objet;--il ne faut pas la demander a la
littérature, _qui n'a et ne peut avoir d'objet_ que le beau." (Anatole
France.)
Of course this must not be taken _too_ literally; but it is
substantially the most important of truths for a writer to keep in mind.
I would suggest this addition: "Remember that nothing can be beautiful
which does not contain truth, and that making an imagination beautiful
means also to make it partly true."
Your English is poor still; but your composition was _artistic_, and
gave me both surprise and pleasure. You understand something about the
grouping of facts in the dramatic sense, and how to appeal by natural
and simple incidents to the reader's emotion. The basis of art is there;
the rest can only come with years of practice,--I mean the secret of
compressed power and high polish. I would suggest that when writing
in your own language, you aim hereafter somewhat in the direction of
compression. You are now somewhat inclined to diffuseness; and a great
deal is gained in strength by understanding how much of detail can be
sacrificed....
Yours faithfully,
Y. KOIZUMI.