Of a novel, for
instance, that I seem to know well, that I recall as an old
acquaintance, I may confidently begin to express an opinion; but when,
having expressed it, I would glance at the book once more, to be
satisfied that my judgement fits it, I can only turn to the image,
such as it is, that remains in a deceiving memory. The volume lies
before me, no doubt, and if it is merely a question of detail, a name
or a scene, I can find the page and verify my sentence. But I cannot
catch a momentary sight of the book, the book itself; I cannot look
up from my writing and sharpen my impression with a straight,
unhampered view of the author's work; to glance at a book, though the
phrase is so often in our mouths, is in fact an impossibility. The
form of a novel--and how often a critic uses that expression too--is
something that none of us, perhaps, has ever really contemplated. It
is revealed little by little, page by page, and it is withdrawn as
fast as it is revealed; as a whole, complete and perfect, it could
only exist in a more tenacious memory than most of us have to rely on.
Our critical faculty may be admirable; we may be thoroughly capable of
judging a book justly, if only we could watch it at ease. But fine
taste and keen perception are of no use to us if we cannot retain the
image of the book; and the image escapes and evades us like a cloud.
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