Such, I should think, is
very nearly the theory of our criticism in the matter of the art of
fiction. A novel is a picture of life, and life is well known to us;
let us first of all "realize" it, and then, using our taste, let us
judge whether it is true, vivid, convincing--like life, in fact.
The theory does indeed go a little further, we know. A novel is a
picture, a portrait, and we do not forget that there is more in a
portrait than the "likeness." Form, design, composition, are to be
sought in a novel, as in any other work of art; a novel is the better
for possessing them. That we must own, if fiction is an art at all;
and an art it must be, since a literal transcript of life is plainly
impossible. The laws of art, therefore, apply to this object of our
scrutiny, this novel, and it is the better, other things being equal,
for obeying them. And yet, is it so very much the better? Is it not
somehow true that fiction, among the arts, is a peculiar case,
unusually exempt from the rules that bind the rest? Does the fact that
a novel is well designed, well proportioned, really make a very great
difference in its power to please?--and let us answer honestly, for if
it does not, then it is pedantry to force these rules upon a novel. In
other arts it may be otherwise, and no doubt a lop-sided statue or an
ill-composed painting is a plain offence to the eye, however skilfully
it may copy life.
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