Now and again I glance at the correspondence columns of a paper devoted
to the affairs of those interested in writing—and find to my astonishment
that authors have a great dislike of unfavourable criticism. I note, for
example, the letter of a hurt and angry man, who protests that he has
had hard measure from the critic of the _Cosmopolitan_, that the _Daily
Mercury_ has clearly not read more than three pages of his book, that
“Judex” in the _Lyre_ says he is ignorant of the elements of prosody:
“a harsh judgment,” the poor man exclaims, “when directed against one
who has the privilege of signing himself ‘M.A. Oxon.’” And sometimes the
reviewer is entreated to remember that authors have their living to get;
the suggested inference being, as I suppose, that the critic should do
nothing but praise the books submitted to him. In fact, there are, it
seems, authors who conceive that a word of blame is a word of injury, and
that a harsh notice is a hardship.
In my opinion, nothing can be farther from the truth. Could anything be
duller than a monotonous song of praise? Is it not obvious that there is
no sport in easy paths? If this were not so, what would become of the
Alpine Clubs? A mountaineer would not thank you for a free excursion
ticket to Romney Marsh or the Bedford Level. Opposition, whether it be
that of a mountain side or a body of critical opinion, is one of the
chiefest zests and relishes of life; and so profoundly have I felt this
that for the last thirty years I have hoarded up my “notices,” with a
very special eye of favour on those “notices” which are foolishly termed
bad. Foolishly, for many reasons, some of which I have suggested; but
chiefly because there is only one sort of notice that is really bad,
and that is no notice at all. I do not know whether there are critical
writers who desire to extinguish, make to cease, and bring to nought
this, that or the other author; but if there be such, I take it that they
are far too skilled in their craft to think that a man can be blotted
out by a column of words, be they fierce or jeering. Silence is the only
fatal sentence; from that there is no appeal, for it there is no remedy.
But this must be done thoroughly; and here I would submit is the error of
the critic of _The Referee_, the late David Christie Murray, who will be
found quoted in the chapter devoted to “The House of Souls.” The writer
desired to “slate” the book with all his heart, and devoted the entire
front page of his paper to that excellent endeavour. He compared the book
to an obscene waxwork anatomical museum at a country fair: “it poisoned
everything.” He was light: he said it was all “baby-Satanic-tommy-rot,”
that it was “buried nastiness.” He declared that I was taking the
ha’pence of the public and making a very decent “(and most indecent)”
living by exhibiting the bestial side of my nature. All very well; but
the critic tried to combine the method of the hearty attack with the
method of silence: he neither mentioned the name of the book nor that
of the author. This was faulty technique: for the next few months the
Editor of _The Referee_ was pestered by correspondents who wanted to know
all about it; to ascertain for themselves the extent of the author’s
depravity.
A more delicate method was employed—in perfect good faith, very
likely—by _The Bystander_. Here the critic gave the name of the book and
of the author, and praised the stories. _But he pretended that I had no
existence._ He said that he had a very strong suspicion that I was, in
reality, Mr Montagu Wood, the author of “A Tangled I.” He added that Mr
Montagu Wood’s humour was recognised in “Pop” at Eton, and afterwards at
the Canning Club at Oxford.
Now, let us be fair. Honour to whom honour is due; I confess that the
dart of this reviewer penetrated my armour. I was genuinely annoyed—I was
a lad of 44 at the time—at being practically wiped out of existence. But,
on calm reflection, I wonder what Mr Wood thought of it. Perhaps he, too,
was not over-pleased. But I shall always think of _The Bystander_ with
the respect that one gives to a cunning craftsman.
There are some very tolerable examples to be found in the collection
relating to “The Great God Pan” and “The Three Impostors.” Of course I
reject the violent, especially the morally violent. These are not in
the true tradition of the fine art of reviewing. When _The Manchester
Guardian_ said that “The Great God Pan” was “the most acutely and
intentionally disagreeable” book it had seen in English, the _Guardian_
blundered. Deplorable as it may be, we must confess that such a sentence
constitutes a valuable free advertisement; and _The Manchester Guardian_
did not desire to advertise the work. Indeed it said so; and thus
blundered again. And so again _The Lady’s Pictorial_: “Men and women
who are morbid and unhealthy in mind may find something that appeals
to them.” This is all wrong. Again we must deplore the anfractuosities
of human nature; but to say that a book is morbid and unhealthy is to
perform the office of a spielman, not of a censor.
No; the way to go about it, if you must leave the safe way of silence,
is to take things lightly. Thus, in _The National Observer_: “In all the
glory of the binder’s and printer’s arts we have two tales of no great
distinction.” So _The Sketch_: “his bogles don’t scare”; _The Daily
Chronicle_: “his horror, we regret to say, leaves us quite cold”; _The
Observer_: “one shakes with laughter rather than with dread.” All these
are very well; and another manner is, I think, successful. The _Belfast
News Letter_ suggested that “sensationalism is the order of the day, and
must be pandered to to make the author’s pot boil.” There is something
intimate in this knowledge of the author’s very disastrous private
affairs which has a strange, elusive charm. Another favourite of mine
is Mr Walkely’s review of “Hieroglyphics” in _The Morning Leader_: here
again you will find intimate knowledge of the writer’s life which could
not have been gathered from title pages. Thus, the opening sentence:
“I do not know whether Mr Machen is to be described as an actor who
amuses his leisure with writing books or as an author who fills up his
evenings by appearing on the stage.” But the article which follows,
though decisive as to the demerits of the book under review, is much
too long. Brevity in these affairs is of the utmost importance. If you
want to say that an author is an unimportant ass, you should say it in a
paragraph, not in a column.
Other reviews which I should like to recommend to the notice of the
_virtuoso_ are _The Manchester Guardian_ on “The Hill of Dreams,” and on
“Far Off Things”; also _The Boston Evening Transcript_ review of “Things
Near and Far.” The heading of this article is: “The Reflections of a
Man of Self-Conceit.” The article displays my mean, sponging, irritable
nature in a very masterly manner. And the very choice collection of
“Outlook” reviews should not be neglected. And I have said that in my
opinion the review of vehement denunciation is not of the highest merit:
but I except Mr Murry’s notice of “The Secret Glory” in _The Nation and
Athenæum_. There is a completeness about it which satisfies.
* * * * *
Finally, it would not be honest to conceal that there is another side to
this as to most other questions. I have had “good” reviews in my day, and
I give a few specimens of these. The writers of these articles I leave
to the judgment of their own conscience. I only hope that, in the words
of Mr Pecksniff, they have not voluntarily deserted the flowery paths of
purity and peace.