酷兔英语

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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 emotion miss the mark either of laughter

or tears. Nothing more humiliating! And this for the reason



that should the mark be missed, should the open display of

emotion 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 dignity

which 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 perceive



without 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






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