The reader of a novel--by which I mean the critical reader--is himself
a novelist; he is the maker of a book which may or may not please his
taste when it is finished, but of a book for which he must take his
own share of the responsibility. The author does his part, but he
cannot transfer his book like a bubble into the brain of the critic;
he cannot make sure that the critic will possess his work. The reader
must therefore become, for his part, a novelist, never permitting
himself to suppose that the creation of the book is solely the affair
of the author. The difference between them is immense, of course, and
so much so that a critic is always inclined to extend and intensify
it. The opposition that he conceives between the creative and the
critical task is a very real one; but in modestly belittling his own
side of the business he is apt to forget an essential portion of it.
The writer of the novel works in a manner that would be utterly
impossible to the critic, no doubt, and with a liberty and with a
range that would disconcert him entirely. But in one quarter their
work coincides; both of them make the novel.
Is it necessary to define the difference? That is soon done if we
picture Tolstoy and his critic side by side, surveying the free and
formless expanse of the world of life. The critic has nothing to say;
he waits, looking to Tolstoy for guidance.
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