We are so well accustomed to this disability that I may seem to make
too much of it. In theory, certainly, the book is never present in the
critic's mind, never there in all its completeness; but enough of it,
in a commonly good memory, remains to be discussed and criticized--the
book as we remember it, the book that survives, is sufficient for
practical purposes. Such we assume to be the case, and our criticism
is very little troubled by the thought that it is only directed at
certain fragments of the book which the author wrote, the rest of it
having ceased to exist for us. There is plenty to say of a book, even
in this condition; for the hours of our actual exposure to it were
full and eventful, and after living for a time with people like
Clarissa Harlowe or Anna Karenina or Emma Bovary we have had a lasting
experience, though the novels in which they figured may fall away into
dimness and uncertainty. These women, with some of the scenes and
episodes of their history, remain with us as vividly as though we had
known them in life; and we still keep a general impression of their
setting and their fortunes, a background more or less undefined, but
associated with the thought of them. It all makes a very real and
solid possession of a kind, and we readily accept it as the book
itself. One does not need to remember the smaller detail of the story
to perceive the truth and force of the characters; and if a great deal
is forgotten, the most striking aspects of the case will linger in the
mind as we look back.
Pages:
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25