PICKING AND CHOOSING
Literature is a phase of life: ifone is afraid of it, the situation is irremediable; ifone approaches it familiarly,what one says of it is worthless. Words are constructivewhen they are true; the opaque allusion—the simulated flightupward—accomplishes nothing. Why cloud the factthat Shaw is selfconscious in the field of sentiment but is otherwise re-warding? that James is all that has beensaid of him but is not profound? It is not Hardythe distinguished novelist and Hardy the poet, but one man“interpreting life through the medium of theemotions.” If he must give an opinion, it is permissible that thecritic should know what he likes. GordonCraig with his “this is I” and “this is mine,” with his threewise men, his “sad French greens” and his Chinese cherries—Gordon Craig, soinclinational and unashamed—has carriedthe precept of being a good critic, to the last extreme. And Burke is apsychologist—of acute, raccoon-like curiosity. Summa diligentia;to the humbug, whose name is so amusing—very young and ve-ry rushed, Cæsar crossed the Alps on the “top of adiligence.” We are not daft about the meaning but this familiaritywith wrong meanings puzzles one. Humming-bug, the candles are not wired for electricity.Small dog, going over the lawn, nipping the linen and sayingthat you have a badger—remember Xenophon;only the most rudimentary sort of behaviour is necessaryto put us on the scent; a “right goodsalvo of barks,” a few “strong wrinkles” puckering theskin between the ears, are all we ask.
Literature is a phase of life: ifone is afraid of it, the situation is irremediable; ifone approaches it familiarly,what one says of it is worthless. Words are constructivewhen they are true; the opaque allusion—the simulated flightupward—accomplishes nothing. Why cloud the factthat Shaw is selfconscious in the field of sentiment but is otherwise re-warding? that James is all that has beensaid of him but is not profound? It is not Hardythe distinguished novelist and Hardy the poet, but one man“interpreting life through the medium of theemotions.” If he must give an opinion, it is permissible that thecritic should know what he likes. GordonCraig with his “this is I” and “this is mine,” with his threewise men, his “sad French greens” and his Chinese cherries—Gordon Craig, soinclinational and unashamed—has carriedthe precept of being a good critic, to the last extreme. And Burke is apsychologist—of acute, raccoon-like curiosity. Summa diligentia;to the humbug, whose name is so amusing—very young and ve-ry rushed, Cæsar crossed the Alps on the “top of adiligence.” We are not daft about the meaning but this familiaritywith wrong meanings puzzles one. Humming-bug, the candles are not wired for electricity.Small dog, going over the lawn, nipping the linen and sayingthat you have a badger—remember Xenophon;only the most rudimentary sort of behaviour is necessaryto put us on the scent; a “right goodsalvo of barks,” a few “strong wrinkles” puckering theskin between the ears, are all we ask.
Literature is a phase of life: ifone is afraid of it, the situation is irremediable; ifone approaches it familiarly,what one says of it is worthless. Words are constructivewhen they are true; the opaque allusion—the simulated flight
upward—accomplishes nothing. Why cloud the factthat Shaw is selfconscious in the field of sentiment but is otherwise re-warding? that James is all that has beensaid of him but is not profound? It is not Hardythe distinguished novelist and Hardy the poet, but one man
“interpreting life through the medium of theemotions.” If he must give an opinion, it is permissible that thecritic should know what he likes. GordonCraig with his “this is I” and “this is mine,” with his threewise men, his “sad French greens” and his Chinese cherries—Gordon Craig, so
inclinational and unashamed—has carriedthe precept of being a good critic, to the last extreme. And Burke is apsychologist—of acute, raccoon-like curiosity. Summa diligentia;to the humbug, whose name is so amusing—very young and ve-
ry rushed, Cæsar crossed the Alps on the “top of adiligence.” We are not daft about the meaning but this familiaritywith wrong meanings puzzles one. Humming-bug, the candles are not wired for electricity.Small dog, going over the lawn, nipping the linen and saying
that you have a badger—remember Xenophon;only the most rudimentary sort of behaviour is necessaryto put us on the scent; a “right goodsalvo of barks,” a few “strong wrinkles” puckering theskin between the ears, are all we ask.