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Some Reminiscences-Part15_JOSEPH CONRAD (1857-1924)_English Literature(文学名著)-第2页

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these reminiscences from turning into confessions, a form of



literary activity discredited by Jean Jacques Rousseau on account

of the extreme thoroughness he brought to the work of justifying



his own existence; for that such was his purpose is palpably,

even grossly, visible to an unprejudiced eye. But then, you see,



the man was not a writer of fiction. He was an artless moralist,

as is clearly demonstrated by his anniversaries being celebrated



with marked emphasis by the heirs of the French Revolution, which

was not a political movement at all, but a great outburst of



morality. He had no imagination, as the most casual perusal of

"Emile" will prove. He was no novelist, whose first virtue is



the exact understanding of the limits traced by the reality of

his time to the play of his invention. Inspiration comes from



the earth, which has a past, a history, a future, not from the

cold and immutable heaven. A writer of imaginative prose (even



more than any other sort of artist) stands confessed in his

works. His conscience, his deeper sense of things, lawful and



unlawful, gives him his attitude before the world. Indeed, every

one who puts pen to paper for the reading of strangers (unless a



moralist, who, generally speaking, has no conscience except the

one he is at pains to produce for the use of others) can speak of



nothing else. It is M. Anatole France, the most eloquent and

just of French prose writers, who says that we must recognise at



last that, "failing the resolution to hold our peace, we can only

talk of ourselves."



This remark, if I remember rightly, was made in the course of a

sparring match with the late Ferdinand Brunetiere over the



principles and rules of literarycriticism" target="_blank" title="n.批评；评论(文)">criticism. As was fitting for a

man to whom we owe the memorablesaying, "The good critic is he



who relates the adventures of his soul amongst masterpieces," M.

Anatole France maintained that there were no rules and no



principles. And that may be very true. Rules, principles and

standards die and vanish every day. Perhaps they are all dead



and vanished by this time. These, if ever, are the brave, free

days of destroyed landmarks, while the ingenious minds are busy



inventing the forms of the new beacons which, it is consoling to

think, will be set up presently in the old places. But what is



interesting to a writer is the possession of an inward certitude

that literarycriticism" target="_blank" title="n.批评；评论(文)">criticism will never die, for man (so variously



defined) is, before everything else, a critical animal. And, as

long as distinguished minds are ready to treat it in the spirit



of high adventure, literarycriticism" target="_blank" title="n.批评；评论(文)">criticism shall appeal to us with all

the charm and wisdom of a well-told tale of personal experience.



For Englishmen especially, of all the races of the earth, a task,

any task, undertaken in an adventurous spirit acquires the merit



of romance. But the critics as a rule exhibit but little of an

adventurous spirit. They take risks, of course--one can hardly



live without that. The daily bread is served out to us (however

sparingly) with a pinch of salt. Otherwise one would get sick of



the diet one prays for, and that would be not only improper, but

impious. From impiety of that or any other kind--save us! An



ideal of reserved manner, adhered to from a sense of proprieties,

from shyness, perhaps, or caution, or simply from weariness,



induces, I suspect, some writers of criticism" target="_blank" title="n.批评；评论(文)">criticism to conceal the

adventurous side of their calling, and then the criticism" target="_blank" title="n.批评；评论(文)">criticism becomes






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