UPTON,
Dec. 12, 1904.
MY DEAR HERBERT,--I have lately been reading in a whimsical and
discursive fashion--you know the mood--turning the pages, and yet not
finding the repose one demands in a book.
One thought emerges from such hours; and as I cannot to-day write you a
long letter, I will just try and shape my ideas in a few sentences,
hoping that you will be able to supplement or correct it.
Is not the one thing which, after all, one demands in art, PERSONALITY?
A perfectly sincere and direct point of view? It matters little what
the point of view is, and whether one agrees with it or not, so long as
one is certain of its truth and reality. Books where there is any sense
of pose, of affectation, of insincerity, do not ever really please or
satisfy; of course there are books which are entirely sincere which are
yet so unsympathetic that one cannot get near them. But presupposing a
certain sympathy of aim and ideal, one may disagree with, or think
incomplete, or consider overstrained, the sincere presentment of some
thought, but one realises it to be true and natural--to be THERE.
Well, such a point of view holds both hope and discouragement for a
writer. Writers have long periods, I suppose, when they don't seem to
have anything to say; or, even worse, when they have something to say
but can't please themselves as to the manner of saying it. But all
these delays, these inarticulate silences, these dumb discouragements
are part, after all, of the same thing. It is useless to try and say
anything under these conditions; or, if one does contrive to express
something, one must look upon it merely as an exercise in expression, a
piece of training, a sort of gymnastic--and be content to throw the
thing aside.
The only kind of thing that is worth saying is the thing that is
conceived in perfect sincerity; it need not be original or
new--sometimes, indeed, it is some one else's thought which touches the
train which seems so difficult to fire. But it must be sincere; one's
very own; if one does not originate it one must, at least, give it the
impress of one's own inmost mind.
Of course, even then the thing may not win acceptance; for a thought to
appeal to others a certain sympathy must be abroad; there must be, to
use a musical metaphor, a certain descant or accompaniment going on,
into which one can drop one's music as an organist plays a solo, which
gives voice and individuality to some quiet, gliding strain.
But the thing to remember is that the one condition of art is that the
thought and the expression must be individual and absolutely sincere.
To be accepted matters little, if only you have said what is in your
heart.
Of course, many things must be combined as well--style, magic of
word-painting, harmony, beauty. There are many people whose strong and
sincere thoughts cannot be uttered, because they have no power of
expression; but even these are all personality too.
There must be no deep and vital despondency in the artist's heart as to
his right and power to speak. His duty is to gain flexibility by
perseverance; and, meanwhile, to analyse, to keep his mind large and
sympathetic, to open all the windows of his heart to the day; not to be
conventional, prejudiced, or wilful; to believe that any one who can
see beauty or truth in a thing is nearer to its essence than one who
can only criticise or despise.
This is roughly and awkwardly put; but I believe it to be true. Tell me
what you feel about it; stay me with flagons, whatever that mysterious
process may be. . . .--Ever yours,