We cannot exactly hit the mark; or if we
do, we cannot be sure of it. I do not speak of the just judgement of
quality; as for that, any critic of any art is in the same
predicament; the value of a picture or a statue is as bodiless as that
of a book. But there are times when a critic of literature feels that
if only there were one single tangible and measurable fact about a
book--if it could be weighed like a statue, say, or measured like a
picture--it would be a support in a world of shadows. Such an
ingenuous confession, I think it must be admitted, goes to the root of
the matter--could we utter our sense of helplessness more candidly?
But still among the shadows there is a spark of light that tempts us,
there is a hint of the possibility that behind them, beyond them, we
may touch a region where the shadows become at least a little more
substantial. If that is so, it seems that our chance must lie in the
direction I have named. The author of the book was a craftsman, the
critic must overtake him at his work and see how the book was made.
INDEX
Ambassadors, The, 145 _ff._, 156 _ff._, 189.
Anna Karenina, 15, 52, 236 _ff._
Austen, Jane, 272.
Awkward Age, The, 189 _ff._
Balzac, 48, 119, 203 _ff._, 220 _ff._, 241, 250.
Barry Lyndon, 145.
Bleak House, 129, 212 _ff._
Bronte, Charlotte, 145.
Clarissa Harlowe, 7, 152 _ff.
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