Read Ebook: Why Authors Go Wrong and Other Explanations by Overton Grant M Grant Martin

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The most striking peculiarity of procedure in the Critical Court is with regard to what constitutes evidence. You might, in the innocence of your heart, suppose that a man's writings would constitute the only admissible evidence. Not at all. His writings have really nothing to do with the case. What is his Purpose? If, as a sincere individual, he has anywhere exposed or stated his object in writing books counsel objects to the admission of this Purpose as evidence on the ground that it is incompetent, irrelevant and immaterial; and not sound Art. On the other hand if, as an artist, he has embodied his Purpose in his fiction so that every intelligent reader may discover it for himself and feel the glow of a personal discovery, counsel will object to the admission of his books as evidence on the ground that they are incompetent, irrelevant and immaterial; and not the best proof. Counsel will demand that the man himself be examined personally as to his purpose or will demand a searching examination of his private life . The witness is always a culprit and browbeating the witness is always in order. I am a highbrow and you are a lowbrow; what the devil do you mean by writing a book anyway?

Before the trial begins the critic-judge enunciates certain principles on which the verdict will be based and the verdict is based on those principles whether they find any application in the testimony or not. A favorite principle with the man on the bench is that all that is not obscure is not Art. It isn't phrased as intelligibly as that, to be sure; a common way to put it is to lay down the rule that the popularity of a book has nothing to do with the case, tra-la, has nothing to do with the case. Another principle is that sound can be greater than sense, which, in the lingo of the Highest Criticism, is the dictum that words and sentences can have a beauty apart from the meaning that they seek to convey. And there really is something in this idea; for example, what could be lovelier than the old line, "Eeny, meeny, miny-mo"? Shakespeare, a commercial fellow who wrote plays for a living, knew this when he let one of his characters sing:

"When that I was and a little tiny boy, With hey, ho, the wind and the rain, A foolish thing was but a toy, For the rain it raineth every day."

"Like a mad lad, Pare thy nails, dad; Adieu, goodman devil."

Which is not only beautiful as sound, but without the least sense unless it hath the vulgarity to be looked for in the work of a mercenary playwright.

But the strangest thing about the proceedings in the Critical Court is their lack of contemporary interest. Rarely, indeed, is anything decided here until it has been decided everywhere else. For the great decisions are the decisions of life and not decisions on the past. A man has written twenty books and he is dead. He is ripe for consideration by the Critical Court. A man has written two novels and has eighteen more ahead of him. The Critical Court will leave him alone until he is past all helping. It seems never to occur to the critic-judge that a young man who has written two novels is more important than a dead man who has written twenty novels. For the young man who has written two novels has some novels yet to be written; he can be helped, strengthened, encouraged, advised, corrected, warned, counselled, rebuked, praised, blamed, presented with bills of particulars, and--heartened. If he has not genius nothing can put it in him, but if he has, many things can be done to help him exploit it. And a man who is dead cannot be affected by anything you say or do; the critic-judge has lost his chance of shaping that writer's work and can no longer write a decree, only an epitaph.

To be brutally frank: Nobody cares what the Critical Court thinks of Whitman or Poe or Longfellow or Hawthorne. Everybody cares what Tarkington does next, what Mary Johnston tackles, what the developments are in the William Allen White case, what becomes of Joseph Hergesheimer, whether Amy Lowell achieves great work in that contrapuntal poetry she calls polyphonic prose. On these things depend the present era in American literature and the possibilities of the future. And these things are more or less under our control.

The people of America not only believe that there is an independent American literature, but they believe that there will continue to be. Some of them believe in the past of that literature, some of them believe in its future; but all of them believe in its present and its presence. Their voice may be stifled in the Critical Court but it is audible everywhere else. It is heard in the bookshops where piles of new fiction melt away, where new verse is in brisk demand, where new biographies and historical works are bought daily and where books on all sorts of weighty subjects flake down from the shelves into the hands of customers.

The voice of the American people is articulate in the offices of newspapers which deal with the news of new books. It makes a seismographic record in the ledgers of publishing houses. It comes to almost every writer in letters of inquiry, comment and commendation. What, do you suppose, a writer like Gene Stratton-Porter cares whether the Critical Court excludes her work or condemns it? She can re-read hundreds and thousands of letters from men and women who tell her how profoundly her books have--tickled their fancy? pleased their love of verbal beauty? taxed their intellectuals to understand? No, merely how profoundly her books have altered their whole lives.

Hear ye! Hear ye! Hear ye! The Critical Court is in session. All who have business with the court draw near and give attention!

IN THE CRITICAL COURT

IN THE CRITICAL COURT

COUNSEL FOR THE PROSECUTION: If it please the court, this case should go over. The defendant, Mr. Tarkington, is not dead yet.

Mr. HOWELLS: I do not know how my colleagues feel, but I have no objection to considering the work of Mr. Tarkington while he is alive.

Mr. FOLLETT: I think it would be better if we deferred the consideration of Mr. Tarkington until it is a little older.

COUNSEL FOR THE DEFENSE : "It"?

Mr. FOLLETT: I mean his work, or works. Perhaps I should have said "them."

Mr. HOLLIDAY: "They," not "them." Exception. And "are" instead of "is." Gentlemen, I have no wish to prejudice the case for my client, but I must point out that if you wait until he is a little older he may be dead.

Mr. BOYNTON: So much the better. We can then consider his works in their complete state and with reference to his entire life.

Mr. HOLLIDAY: But it would then be impossible to give any assistance to Mr. Tarkington. The chance to influence his work would have passed.

Mr. BROWNELL: That is relatively unimportant.

Mr. HOLLIDAY: I beg pardon but Mr. Tarkington feels it rather important to him.

Mr. BOYNTON: My dear Mr. Holliday, you really must remember that it is not what seems important to Mr. Tarkington that can count with us, but what is important in our eyes.

Mr. HOLLIDAY: Self-importance.

Mr. BOYNTON : Certainly not. Merely self-confidence. But on my own behalf I may say this: I am unwilling to consider Mr. Tarkington's works in this place at this time; but I am willing to pass judgment in an article for a newspaper or a monthly magazine or some other purely perishable medium. That should be sufficient for Mr. Tarkington.

Mr. HOLLIDAY : Very well, I will not insist. Booth, you will have to get along the best you can with newspaper and magazine reviews and with what people write to you or tell you face to face. Be brave, Tark, and do as you aren't done by. After all, a few million people read you and you make enough to live on. The court will pass on you after you are dead, and if you dictate any books on the ouija board the court's verdict may be helpful to you then; you might even manage the later Henry James manner.

CLERK OF THE COURT : Next case! Mrs. Atherton please step forward!

Mrs. ATHERTON : I can find no one to act for me, so I will be my own counsel. I will say at the outset that I do not care for the court, individually or collectively, nor for its verdict, whatever it may be.

Prof. PHELPS: I must warn you that anything you say may, and probably will, be used against you.

Mrs. ATHERTON: Oh, I don't mind that; it's the things the members of the court have said against me that I purpose to use against them.

Mr. BROWNELL: Are you, by any chance, referring to me, Madam?

Mrs. ATHERTON: I do not refer to persons, Mr. Brownell. I hit them. No, I had Mr. Boynton particularly in mind. And perhaps Gene Stratton-Porter. Is she here? . No. Well, go ahead with your nonsense.

Mr. FOLLETT: I think there is no question but that we should hold the defendant in contempt.

Mrs. ATHERTON: Mutual, I assure you.

CLERK PHELPS: Joseph Hergesheimer to the bar! Mr. Hergesheimer?

Mr. HERGESHEIMER: Right.

Mr. REEDY: Good boy, Joe!

Mr. HERGESHEIMER: With all respect, I should like to ask whether this is a court of record?

Mr. HOWELLS: It is.

Mr. HERGESHEIMER: In that case I think I shall press for a verdict which may be very helpful to me. I should like also to have the members of the court on record respecting my work.

Mr. BOYNTON: Just as I feared. My dear fellow, while we should like to be helpful and will endeavor to give you advice to that end it must be done unobtrusively ... current reviews ... we'll compare your work with that of Hawthorne and Hardy or perhaps a standard Frenchman. That will give you something to work for. But you cannot expect us to say anything definite about you at this stage of your work. Suppose we were to say what we really think, or what some really think, that you are the most promising writer in America to-day, promising in the sense that you have most of your work before you and in the sense that your work is both popular and artistically fine. Don't you see the risk?

Mr. HERGESHEIMER: I do, and I also see that you would make your own reputation much more than you would make mine. I write a story. I risk everything with that story. You deliver a verdict. Why shouldn't you take a decent chance, too?

Mr. FOLLETT: Why should I take any more chances than I have to with my contemporaries? I pick them pretty carefully, I can tell you.

Mr. FOLLETT : That is a wise decision. But don't be disheartened. I'll probably be able to get around to you in ten years, anyway.

CLERK PHELPS: John Galsworthy!

Mr. FOLLETT : Some of the Englishmen! This is better! Besides, I know all about Galsworthy.

Mr. GALSWORTHY : I feel much honored.

COUNSEL FOR THE PROSECUTION: If the court please, I must state that for some time now Mr. Galsworthy has been published serially in a magazine with a circulation of one digit and six ciphers. Or one cipher and six digits, I cannot remember which.

Mr. BROWNELL: What, six? Then he has more readers than can be counted on the fingers of one hand. There are only five fingers on a hand. I think this is conclusive.

Mr. BOYNTON: Oh, decidedly.

Mr. FOLLETT: But I put him in my book on modern novelists, all of whom were hand picked.

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