flower of personal expression in the garden of letters. But this
is more of a personal matter, reaching the man behind the work,
and
therefore it may be alluded to in a
volume which is a
personal note in the
margin of the public page. Not that I feel
hurt in the least. The
charge--if it amounted to a
charge at
all--was made in the most
considerate terms; in a tone of regret.
My answer is that if it be true that every novel contains an
element of autobiography--and this can hardly be denied, since
the
creator can only express himself in his creation--then there
are some of us to whom an open display of
sentiment is repugnant.
I would not unduly praise the
virtue of
restraint. It is often
merely temperamental. But it is not always a sign of coldness.
It may be pride. There can be nothing more humiliating than to
see the shaft of one's e
motion miss the mark either of
laughteror tears. Nothing more humiliating! And this for the reason
that should the mark be missed, should the open display of
e
motion fail to move, then it must
perish unavoidably in disgust
or
contempt. No artist can be reproached for shrinking from a
risk which only fools run to meet and only
genius dare confront
with
impunity. In a task which
mainly consists in laying one's
soul more or less bare to the world, a regard for
decency, even
at the cost of success, is but the regard for one's own
dignitywhich is inseparably united with the
dignity of one's work.
And then--it is very difficult to be
whollyjoyous or
wholly sad
on this earth. The comic, when it is human, soon takes upon
itself a face of pain; and some of our griefs (some only, not
all, for it is the
capacity for
suffering which makes man august
in the eyes of men) have their source in weaknesses which must be
recognised with smiling
passion" target="_blank" title="n.同情;怜悯">
compassion as the common
inheritance of
us all. Joy and sorrow in this world pass into each other,
mingling their forms and their murmurs in the
twilight of life as
mysterious as an over-shadowed ocean, while the dazzling
brightness of
supreme hopes lies far off,
fascinating and still,
on the distant edge of the horizon.
Yes! I too would like to hold the magic wand giving that command
over
laughter and tears which is declared to be the highest
achievement of
imaginativeliterature. Only, to be a great
magician one must
surrender oneself to occult and irresponsible
powers, either outside or within one's own breast. We have all
heard of simple men selling their souls for love or power to some
grotesque devil. The most ordinary
intelligence can
perceivewithout much
reflection that anything of the sort is bound to be
a fool's
bargain. I don't lay claim to particular
wisdom because
of my
dislike and
distrust of such transactions. It may be my
sea-training
acting upon a natural
disposition to keep good hold
on the one thing really mine, but the fact is that I have a
positive
horror of losing even for one moving moment that full
possession of myself which is the first condition of good
service. And I have carried my notion of good service from my
earlier into my later
existence. I, who have never sought in the
written word anything else but a form of the Beautiful, I have
carried over that article of creed from the decks of ships to the
more circumscribed space of my desk; and by that act, I suppose,
I have become
permanentlyimperfect in the eyes of the ineffable
company of pure esthetes.
As in political so in
literary action a man wins friends for
himself
mostly by the
passion of his prejudices and by the
consistent narrowness of his
outlook. But I have never been able
to love what was not
lovable or hate what was not
hateful, out of
deference for some general principle. Whether there be any
courage in making this
admission I know not. After the middle
turn of life's way we consider dangers and joys with a tranquil
mind. So I proceed in peace to declare that I have always