October

[99]October

OneA most curious and useful thing to realise is that one never knows the impression one is creating on other people.TwoAt seventy men begin to be separated from their fellow-creatures. At eighty they are like islets sticking out of a sea. At eighty-five, with their trembling and deliberate speech, they are the abstract voice of human wisdom. They gather wisdom with amazing rapidity in the latter years, and even their folly is wise then.ThreeIn its essence all fiction is wildly improbable, and its fundamental improbability is masked by an observance of probability in details.FourOnly reviewers have a prejudice against long novels.FiveThe most important of all perceptions is the continual perception of cause and effect—in other words, the perception of the continuous development of the universe—in still other words, the perception of the course of evolution.SixNo reading of books will take the place of a daily, candid, honest examination of what one has recently done, and what one is about to do—of a steady looking at one’s self in the face (disconcerting though the sight may be).SevenThe beauty of a classic is not at all apt to knock you down. It will steal over you, rather.EightSelf-respect is at the root of all purposefulness, and a failure in an enterprise deliberately planned deals a desperate wound at one’s self-respect.NineA man may be a sub-editor, or even an assistant-editor, for half a lifetime, and yet remain ignorant of the true significance of journalism.TenHappiness does not spring from the procuring of physical or mental pleasure, but from the development of reason and the adjustment of conduct to principles.ElevenThe heart is convinced that custom is a virtue. The heart of the dirty working-man rebels when the State insists that he shall be clean, for no other reason than that it is his custom to be dirty.TwelveTo be honest with oneself is not so simple as it appears.Thirteen“My wife will never understand,” said Mr. Brindley, “that complete confidence between two human beings is impossible.”FourteenDemanding honesty from your authors, you must see that you render it yourself.FifteenImagine the technical difficulties of a painter whose canvas was always being rolled off one stick on to another stick, and who was compelled to do his picture inch by inch, seeing nothing but the particular inch which happened to be under his brush. That difficulty is only one of the difficulties of the novelist.SixteenIt is a fact that few novelists enjoy the creative labour, though most enjoy thinking about the creative labour. Novelists enjoy writing novels no more than ploughmen enjoy following the plough. They regard business as a “grind.”SeventeenThe born journalist comes into the world with the fixed notion that nothing under the sun is uninteresting. He says: “I cannot pass along the street, or cut a finger, or marry, or catch a cold or a fish, or go to church, or perform any act whatever, without being impressed anew by the interestingness of mundane phenomena, and without experiencing a desire to share this impression with my fellow-creatures.”EighteenAny change, even a change for the better, is always accompanied by drawbacks and discomforts.NineteenIt is much easier to begin a novel than to finish it. This statement applies to many enterprises, but to none with more force than to a long art-work such as a novel or a play.TwentyA true book is not always great. But a great book is never untrue.Twenty-oneThe impossible had occurred. I was no longer a mere journalist; I was an author. “After all, it’s nothing,” I said, with that intense and unoriginal humanity which distinguishes all of us. And in a blinding flash I saw that an author was in essence the same thing as a grocer or a duke.Twenty-twoWhen the reason and the heart come into conflict the heart is invariably wrong.Twenty-threeMarriage is excessively prosaic and eternal, not at all what you expect it to be.Twenty-fourI do not forget that the realism of one age is the conventionality of the next. In the main the tendency of art is always to reduce and simplify its conventions, thus necessitating an increase of virtuosity in order to obtain the same effects of shapeliness and rhythm.Twenty-fiveFor the majority of people the earth is a dull planet. It is only a Stevenson who can say: “I never remember being bored,” and one may fairly doubt whether even Stevenson uttered truth when he made that extraordinary statement. None of us escapes boredom entirely; some of us, indeed, are bored during the greater part of our lives. The fact is unpalatable, but it is a fact.Twenty-sixAn average of over an hour a day given to the mind should permanently and completely enliven the whole activity of the mind.Twenty-sevenA large class of people positively resent being thrilled by a work of fiction, and the domestic serial is meant to appeal to this class.Twenty-eightIt is natural that people who concern themselves with art only in their leisure moments, demanding from it nothing but a temporary distraction, should prefer the obvious to the recondite, and should walk regardless of beauty unless it forces itself upon their attention by means of exaggerations and advertisement. The public wants to be struck, hit squarely in the face; then it will take notice.Twenty-nineWhen a book attains a large circulation one usually says that it succeeds. But the fine books succeed of themselves, by their own virtue, and apart from the acclamatory noises of fame. Immure them in cabinets, cast them into Sahara; still they imperturbably succeed. If, on a rare occasion, such a book sells by scores of thousands, it is not the book but the public which succeeds; it is not the book but the public which has emerged splendidly from a trial.ThirtyThe artists who have courage fully to exploit their own temperaments are always sufficiently infrequent to be peculiarly noticeable and welcome. Still more rare are they who, leaving it to others to sing and emphasise the ideal and obvious beauties which all can in some measure see, will exclusively exercise the artist’s prerogative as an explorer of hidden and recondite beauty in unsuspected places.Thirty-oneBad books, by flattering you, by caressing, by appealing to the weak or the base in you, will often persuade you what fine and splendid books they are.

A most curious and useful thing to realise is that one never knows the impression one is creating on other people.

At seventy men begin to be separated from their fellow-creatures. At eighty they are like islets sticking out of a sea. At eighty-five, with their trembling and deliberate speech, they are the abstract voice of human wisdom. They gather wisdom with amazing rapidity in the latter years, and even their folly is wise then.

In its essence all fiction is wildly improbable, and its fundamental improbability is masked by an observance of probability in details.

Only reviewers have a prejudice against long novels.

The most important of all perceptions is the continual perception of cause and effect—in other words, the perception of the continuous development of the universe—in still other words, the perception of the course of evolution.

No reading of books will take the place of a daily, candid, honest examination of what one has recently done, and what one is about to do—of a steady looking at one’s self in the face (disconcerting though the sight may be).

The beauty of a classic is not at all apt to knock you down. It will steal over you, rather.

Self-respect is at the root of all purposefulness, and a failure in an enterprise deliberately planned deals a desperate wound at one’s self-respect.

A man may be a sub-editor, or even an assistant-editor, for half a lifetime, and yet remain ignorant of the true significance of journalism.

Happiness does not spring from the procuring of physical or mental pleasure, but from the development of reason and the adjustment of conduct to principles.

The heart is convinced that custom is a virtue. The heart of the dirty working-man rebels when the State insists that he shall be clean, for no other reason than that it is his custom to be dirty.

To be honest with oneself is not so simple as it appears.

“My wife will never understand,” said Mr. Brindley, “that complete confidence between two human beings is impossible.”

Demanding honesty from your authors, you must see that you render it yourself.

Imagine the technical difficulties of a painter whose canvas was always being rolled off one stick on to another stick, and who was compelled to do his picture inch by inch, seeing nothing but the particular inch which happened to be under his brush. That difficulty is only one of the difficulties of the novelist.

It is a fact that few novelists enjoy the creative labour, though most enjoy thinking about the creative labour. Novelists enjoy writing novels no more than ploughmen enjoy following the plough. They regard business as a “grind.”

The born journalist comes into the world with the fixed notion that nothing under the sun is uninteresting. He says: “I cannot pass along the street, or cut a finger, or marry, or catch a cold or a fish, or go to church, or perform any act whatever, without being impressed anew by the interestingness of mundane phenomena, and without experiencing a desire to share this impression with my fellow-creatures.”

Any change, even a change for the better, is always accompanied by drawbacks and discomforts.

It is much easier to begin a novel than to finish it. This statement applies to many enterprises, but to none with more force than to a long art-work such as a novel or a play.

A true book is not always great. But a great book is never untrue.

The impossible had occurred. I was no longer a mere journalist; I was an author. “After all, it’s nothing,” I said, with that intense and unoriginal humanity which distinguishes all of us. And in a blinding flash I saw that an author was in essence the same thing as a grocer or a duke.

When the reason and the heart come into conflict the heart is invariably wrong.

Marriage is excessively prosaic and eternal, not at all what you expect it to be.

I do not forget that the realism of one age is the conventionality of the next. In the main the tendency of art is always to reduce and simplify its conventions, thus necessitating an increase of virtuosity in order to obtain the same effects of shapeliness and rhythm.

For the majority of people the earth is a dull planet. It is only a Stevenson who can say: “I never remember being bored,” and one may fairly doubt whether even Stevenson uttered truth when he made that extraordinary statement. None of us escapes boredom entirely; some of us, indeed, are bored during the greater part of our lives. The fact is unpalatable, but it is a fact.

An average of over an hour a day given to the mind should permanently and completely enliven the whole activity of the mind.

A large class of people positively resent being thrilled by a work of fiction, and the domestic serial is meant to appeal to this class.

It is natural that people who concern themselves with art only in their leisure moments, demanding from it nothing but a temporary distraction, should prefer the obvious to the recondite, and should walk regardless of beauty unless it forces itself upon their attention by means of exaggerations and advertisement. The public wants to be struck, hit squarely in the face; then it will take notice.

When a book attains a large circulation one usually says that it succeeds. But the fine books succeed of themselves, by their own virtue, and apart from the acclamatory noises of fame. Immure them in cabinets, cast them into Sahara; still they imperturbably succeed. If, on a rare occasion, such a book sells by scores of thousands, it is not the book but the public which succeeds; it is not the book but the public which has emerged splendidly from a trial.

The artists who have courage fully to exploit their own temperaments are always sufficiently infrequent to be peculiarly noticeable and welcome. Still more rare are they who, leaving it to others to sing and emphasise the ideal and obvious beauties which all can in some measure see, will exclusively exercise the artist’s prerogative as an explorer of hidden and recondite beauty in unsuspected places.

Bad books, by flattering you, by caressing, by appealing to the weak or the base in you, will often persuade you what fine and splendid books they are.

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