And so by accepting and using what looked like a mere
disability in the method, you convert it into a powerful and valuable
arm, with a keen effect of its own.
That is how the story that is centred in somebody's consciousness,
passed through a fashioned and constituted mind--not poured straight
into the book from the mind of the author, which is a far-away matter,
vaguely divined, with no certain edge to it--takes its place as a
story dramatically pictured, and as a story, therefore, of stronger
stuff than a simple and undramatic report. Thus may be expressed the
reason which underlies the novelist's reluctance to _tell_ his story
and his desire to interpose another presence between himself and the
reader. It seems a good reason, good enough to be acted upon more
consistently than it is by the masters of the craft. For though their
reluctance has had a progressive history, though there are a few
principles in the art of fiction that have appeared to emerge and to
become established in the course of time, a reader of novels is left
at last amazed by the chaos in which the art is still pursued--frankly
let it be said. Different schools, debatable theories, principles
upheld by some and rejected by others--such disagreement would all be
right and natural, it would be the mark of vigour in the art and the
criticism of it. But no connected argument, no definition of terms, no
formulation of claims, not so much as any ground really cleared and
prepared for discussion--what is a novel-reader to make of such a
condition and how is he to keep his critical interest alive and alert?
The business of criticism in the matter of fiction seems clear, at any
rate.
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