The Principles of Success in Literature - George Henry Lewes
by
George Henry Lewes
This eBook was prepared by Roland Cheney.
In the development of the great series of animal organisms, the Nervous
System assumes more and more of an imperial character. The rank held by
any animal is determined by this character, and not at all by its bulk,
its strength, or even its utility. In like manner, in the development
of the social organism, as the life of nations becomes more complex,
Thought assumes a more imperial character; and Literature, in its
widest sense, becomes a delicate index of social evolution. Barbarous
societies show only the germs of literary life. But advancing
civilisation, bringing with it increased conquest over material
agencies, disengages the mind from the pressure of immediate wants, and
the loosened energy finds in leisure both the demand and the means of a
new activity: the demand, because long unoccupied hours have to be
rescued from the weariness of inaction; the means, because this call
upon the energies nourishes a greater ambition and furnishes a wider
arena.
Literature is at once the cause and the effect of social progress. It
deepens our natural sensibilities, and strengthens by exercise our
intellectual capacities. It stores up the accumulated experience of the
race, connecting Past and Present into a conscious unity; and with this
store it feeds successive generations, to be fed in turn by them. As
its importance emerges into more general recognition, it necessarily
draws after it a larger crowd of servitors, filling noble minds with a
noble ambition.
There is no need in our day to be dithyrambic on the glory of
Literature. Books have become our dearest companions, yielding
exquisite delights and inspiring lofty aims. They are our silent
instructors, our solace in sorrow, our relief in weariness. With what
enjoyment we linger over the pages of some well-loved author! With
what gratitude we regard every honest book! Friendships, prefound and
generous, are formed with men long dead, and with men whom we may never
see. The lives of these men have a quite personal interest for us.
Their homes become as consecrated shrines. Their little ways and
familiar phrases become endeared to us, like the little ways and
phrases of our wives and children.
It is natural that numbers who have once been thrilled with this
delight should in turn aspire to the privilege of exciting it. Success
in Literature has thus become not only the ambition of the highest
minds, it has also become the ambition of minds intensely occupied
with other means of influencing their fellow--with statesmen,
warriors, and rulers. Prime ministers and emperors have striven for
distinction as poets, scholars, critics, and historians. Unsatisfied
with the powers and privileges of rank, wealth, and their conspicuous
position in the eyes of men, they have longed also for the nobler
privilege of exercising a generous sway over the minds and hearts of
readers. To gain this they have stolen hours from the pressure of
affairs, and disregarded the allurements of luxurious ease, labouring
steadfastly, hoping eagerly. Nor have they mistaken the value of the
reward. Success in Literature is, in truth, the blue ribbon of
nobility.
There is another aspect presented by Literature. It has become a
profession; to many a serious and elevating profession; to many more a
mere trade, having miserable trade-aims and trade-tricks. As in every
other profession, the ranks are thronged with incompetent aspirants,
without seriousness of aim, without the faculties demanded by their
work. They are led to waste powers which in other directions might have
done honest service, because they have failed to discriminate between
aspiration and inspiration, between the desire for greatness and the
consciousness of power. Still lower in the ranks are those who follow
Literature simply because they see no other opening for their
incompetence; just as forlorn widows and ignorant old maids thrown
suddenly on their own resources open a school--no other means of
livelihood seeming to be within their reach. Lowest of all are those
whose esurient vanity, acting on a frivolous levity of mind, urges them
to make Literature a plaything for display. To write for a livelihood,
even on a complete misapprehension of our powers, is at least a
respectable impulse. To play at Literature is altogether inexcusable:
the motive is vanity, the object notoriety, the end contempt.
I propose to treat of the Principles of Success in Literature, in the
belief that if a clear recognition of the principles which underlie all
successful writing could once be gained, it would be no inconsiderable
help to many a young and thoughtful mind. Is it necessary to guard
against a misconception of my object, and to explain that I hope to
furnish nothing more than help and encouragement? There is help to be
gained from a clear understanding of the conditions of success; and
encouragement to be gained from a reliance on the ultimate victory of
true principles. More than this can hardly be expected from me, even on
the supposition that I have ascertained the real conditions. No one, it
is to be presumed, will imagine that I can have any pretension of
giving recipes for Literature, or of furnishing power and talent where
nature has withheld them. I must assume the presence of the talent, and
then assign the conditions under which that talent can alone achieve
real success, no man is made a discoverer by learning the principles of
scientific Method; but only by those principles can discoveries be
made; and if he has consciously mastered them, he will find them
directing his researches and saving him from an immensity of fruitless
labour. It is something in the nature of the Method of Literature that
I propose to expound. Success is not an accident. All Literature is
founded upon psychological laws, and involves principles which are true
for all peoples and for all times. These principles we are to consider
here.
II.
The rarity of good books in every department, and the enormous quantity
of imperfect, insincere books, has been the lament of all times. The
complaint being as old as Literature itself, we may dismiss without
notice all the accusations which throw the burden on systems of
education, conditions of society, cheap books, levity and superficialty
of readers, and analogous causes. None of these can be a VERA CAUSA;
though each may have had its special influence in determining the
production of some imperfect works. The main cause I take to be that
indicated in Goethe's aphorism: "In this world there are so few voices
and so many echoes." Books are generally more deficient in sincerity
than in cleverness. Talent, as will become apparent in the course of
our inquiry, holds a very subordinate position in Literature to that
usually assigned to it. Indeed, a cursory inspection of the Literature
of our day will detect an abundance of remarkable talent---that is, of
intellectual agility, apprehensiveness, wit, fancy, and power of
expression which is nevertheless impotent to rescue "clever writing"
from neglect or contempt. It is unreal splendour; for the most part
mere intellectual fireworks. In Life, as in Literature, our admiration
for mere cleverness has a touch of contempt in it, and is very unlike
the respect paid to character. And justly so. No talent can be
supremely effective unless it act in close alliance with certain moral
qualities. (What these qualities are will be specified hereafter.)
Another cause, intimately allied with the absence of moral guidance
just alluded to, is MISDIRECTION of talent. Valuable energy is wasted
by being misdirected. Men are constantly attempting, without special
aptitude, work for which special aptitude is indispensable.
"On peut etre honnete hornme et faire mal des vers."
A man may be variously accomplished, and yet be a feeble poet. He may
be a real poet, yet a feeble dramatist, he may have dramatic faculty,
yet be a feeble novelist. He may be a good story-teller, yet a shallow
thinker and a slip-shod writer. For success in any special kind of work
it is obvious that a special talent is requisite; but obvious as this
seems, when stated as a general proposition, it rarely serves to check
a mistaken presumption. There are many writers endowed with a certain
susceptibility to the graces and refinements of Literature which has
been fostered by culture till they have mistaken it for native power;
and these men, being really destitute of native power, are forced to
imitate what others have created. They can understand how a man may
have musical sensibility and yet not be a good singer; but they fail to
understand, at least in their own case, how a man may have literary
sensibility, yet not be a good story-teller or an effective dramatist.
They imagine that if they are cultivated and clever, can write what is
delusively called a "brilliant style," and are familiar with the
masterpieces of Literature, they must be more competent to succeed in
fiction or the drama than a duller man, with a plainer style and
slenderer acquaintance with the "best models." Had they distinctly
conceived the real aims of Literature this mistake would often have
been avoided. A recognition of the aims would have pressed on their
attention a more distinct appreciation of the requirements.
No one ever doubted that special aptitudes were required for music,
mathematics, drawing, or for wit; but other aptitudes not less special
are seldom recognised. It is with authors as with actors: mere delight
in the art deludes them into the belief that they could be artists.
There are born actors, as there are born authors. To an observant eye
such men reveal their native endowments. Even in conversation they
spontaneously throw themselves into the characters they speak of. They
mimic, often quite unconsciously the speech and gesture of the person.
They dramatise when they narrate. Other men with little of this
faculty, but with only so much of it as will enable them to imitate the
tones and gestures of some admired actor, are misled by their vanity
into the belief that they also are actors, that they also could move an
audience as their original moves it.
In Literature we see a few original writers, and a crowd of imitators:
men of special aptitudes, and men who mistake their power of repeating
with slight variation what others have done, for a power of creating
anew. The imitator sees that it is easy to do that which has already
been done. He intends to improve on it; to add from his own stores
something which the originator could not give; to lend it the lustre of
a richer mind; to make this situation more impressive, and that
character more natural. He is vividly impressed with the imperfections
of the original. And it is a perpetual puzzle to him why the public,
which applauds his imperfect predecessor, stupidly fails to recognise
his own obvious improvements.
It is from such men that the cry goes forth about neglected genius and
public caprice. In secret they despise many a distinguished writer, and
privately, if not publicly, assert themselves as immeasurably superior.
The success of a Dumas is to them a puzzle and an irritation. They do
not understand that a man becomes distinguished in virtue of some
special talent properly directed; and that their obscurity is due
either to the absence of a special talent, or to its misdirection. They
may probably be superior to Dumas in general culture, or various
ability; it is in particular ability that they are his inferiors. They
may be conscious of wider knowledge, a more exquisite sensibility, and
a finer taste more finely cultivated; yet they have failed to produce
any impression on the public in a direction where the despised
favourite has produced a strong impression. They are thus thrown upon
the alternative of supposing that he has had "the luck" denied to them,
or that the public taste is degraded and prefers trash. Both opinions
are serious mistakes. Both injure the mind that harbours them.
In how far is success a test of merit? Rigorously considered it is an
absolute test. Nor is such a conclusion shaken by the undeniable fact
that temporary applause is often secured by works which have no lasting
value. For we must always ask, What is the nature of the applause, and
from what circles does it rise? A work which appears at a particular
juncture, and suits the fleeting wants of the hour, flattering the
passions of the hour, may make a loud noise, and bring its author into
strong relief. This is not luck, but a certain fitness between the
author's mind and the public needs. He who first seizes the occasion,
may be for general purposes intrinsically a feebler man than many who
stand listless or hesitating till the moment be passed; but in
Literature, as in Life, a sudden promptitude outrivals vacillating
power.
Generally speaking, however, this promptitude has but rare occasions
for achieving success. We may lay it down as a rule that no work ever
succeeded, even for a day, but it deserved that success; no work ever
failed but under conditions which made failure inevltable. This will
seem hard to men who feel that in their case neglect arises from
prejudice or stupidity. Yet it is true even in extreme cases; true even
when the work once neglected has since been acknowleged superior to the
works which for a time eclipsed it. Success, temporary or enduring, is
the measure of the relatlon, temporary or enduring, which exists
between a work and the public mind. The millet seed may be
intrinsically less valuable than a pearl; but the hungry cock wisely
neglected the pearl, because pearls could not, and millet seeds could,
appease his hunger. Who shall say how much of the subsequent success of
a once neglected work is due to the preparation of the public mind
through the works which for a time eclipsed it?
Let us look candidly at this matter. It interests us all; for we have
all more or less to contend against public misconception, no less than
against our own defects. The object of Literature is to instruct, to
animate, or to amuse. Any book which does one of these things
succeeds; any book which does none of these things fails. Failure is
the indication of an inability to perform what was attempted: the aim
was misdirected, or the arm was too weak: in either case the mark has
not been hit.
"The public taste is degraded." Perhaps so; and perhaps not. But in
granting a want of due preparation in the public, we only grant that
the author has missed his aim. A reader cannot be expected to be
interested in ideas which are not presented intelligibly to him, nor
delighted by art which does not touch him; and for the writer to imply
that he furnishes arguments, but does not pretend to furnish brains to
understand the arguments, is arrogance. What Goethe says about the most
legible handwriting being illegible in the twilight, is doubtless true;
and should be oftener borne in mind by frivolous objectors, who declare
they do not understand this or do not admire that, as if their want of
taste and understanding were rather creditable than otherwise, and were
decisive proofs of an author's insignificance. But this reproof, which
is telling against individuals, has no justice as against the public.
For--and this is generally lost sight of--the public is composed of the
class or classes directly addressed by any work, and not of the
heterogeneous mass of readers. Mathematicians do not write for the
circulating library. Science is not addressed to poets. Philosophy is
meant for students, not for idle readers. If the members of a class do
not understand--if those directly addressed fail to listen, or
listening, fail to recognise a power in the voice--surely the fault
lies with the speaker, who, having attempted to secure their attention
and enlighten their understandings, has failed in the attempt? The
mathematician who is without value to mathematicians, the thinker who
is obscure or meaningless to thinkers, the dramatist who fails to move
the pit, may be wise, may be eminent, but as an author he has failed.
He attempted to make his wisdom and his power operate on the minds of
others. He has missed his mark. MARGARITAS ANTE PORCOS! is the soothing
maxim of a disappointed self-love. But we, who look on, may sometimes
doubt whether they WERE pearls thus ineffectually thrown; and always
doubt the judiciousness of strewing pearls before swine. The prosperity
of a book lies in the minds of readers. Public knowledge and public
taste fluctuate; and there come times when works which were once
capable of instructing and delighting thousands lose their power, and
works, before neglected, emerge into renown. A small minority to whom
these works appealed has gradually become a large minority, and in the
evolution of opinion will perhaps become the majority. No man can
pretend to say that the work neglected today will not be a household
word tomorrow; or that the pride and glory of our age will not be
covered with cobwebs on the bookshelves of our children. Those works
alone can have enduring success which successfully appeal to what is
permanent in human nature--which, while suiting the taste of the day,
contain truths and beauty deeper than the opinions and tastes of the
day; but even temperary success implies a certain temporary fitness. In
Homer, Sophocles, Dante, Shakspeare, Cervantes, we are made aware of
much that no longer accords with the wisdom or the taste of our
day--temporary and immature expressions of fluctuating opinions--but we
are also aware of much that is both true and noble now, and will be so
for ever.
It is only posterity that can decide whether the success or failure
shall be enduring; for it is only posterity that can reveal whether the
relation now existing between the work and the public mind is or is not
liable to fluctuation. Yet no man really writes for posterity; no man
ought to do so.
"Wer machte denn der Mitwelt Spass?"
("Who is to amuse the present?") asks the wise Merry Andrew in
FAUST. We must leave posterity to choose its own idols. There is,
however, this chance in favour of any work which has once achieved
success, that what has pleased one generation may please another,
because it may be based upon a truth or beauty which cannot die; and
there is this chance against any work which has once failed, that its
unfitness may be owing to some falsehood or imperfection which cannot
live.
III.
In urging all writers to be steadfast in reliance on the ultimate
victory of excellence, we should no less strenuously urge upon them to
beware of the intemperate arrogance which attributes failure to a
degraded condition of the public mind. The instinct which leads the
world to worship success is not dangerous. The book which succeeds
accomplishes its aim. The book which fails may have many excellencies,
but they must have been misdirected. Let us, however, understand what
is meant by failure. From want of a clear recognition of this meaning,
many a serious writer has been made bitter by the reflection that
shallow, feeble works have found large audiences, whereas his own work
has not paid the printing expenses. He forgets that the readers who
found instruction and amusement in the shallow books could have found
none in his book, because he had not the art of making his ideas
intelligible and attractive to them, or had not duly considered what
food was assimilable by their minds. It is idle to write in
hieroglyphics for the mass when only priests can read the sacred
symbols.
No one, it is hoped, will suppose that by what is here said I
countenance the notion which is held by some authors--a notion implying
either arrogant self-sufficiency or mercenary servility--that to
succeed, a man should write down to the public. Quite the reverse. To
succeed, a man should write up to his ideal. He should do his very
best; certain that the very best will still fall short of what the
public can appreciate. He will only degrade his own mind by putting
forth works avowedly of inferior quality; and will find himself greatly
surpassed by writers whose inferior workmanship has nevertheless the
indefinable aspect of being the best they can produce. The man of
common mind is more directly in sympathy with the vulgar public, and
can speak to it more intelligibly, than any one who is condescending to
it. If you feel yourself to be above the mass, speak so as to raise the
mass to the height of your argument. It may be that the interval is too
great. It may be that the nature of your arguments is such as to demand
from the audience an intellectual preparation, and a habit of
concentrated continuity of thought, which cannot be expected from a
miscellaneous assembly. The scholarship of a Scaliger or the philosophy
of a Kant will obviously require an audience of scholars and
philosophers. And in cases where the nature of the work limits the
class of readers, no man should complain if the readers he does not
address pass him by to follow another. He will not allure these by
writing down to them; or if he allure them, he will lose those who
properly constitute his real audience.
A writer misdirects his talent if he lowers his standard of excellence.
Whatever he can do best let him do that, certain of reward in
proportion to his excellence. The reward is not always measurable by
the number of copies sold; that simply measures the extent of his
public. It may prove that he has stirred the hearts and enlightened the
minds of many. It may also prove, as Johnson says, "that his nonsense
suits their nonsense." The real reward of Literature is in the sympathy
of congenial minds, and is precious in proportion to the elevation of
those minds, and the gravity with which such sympathy moves: the
admiration of a mathematician for the MECANIQUE CELESTE, for example,
is altogether higher in kind than the admiration of a novel reader for
the last "delightful story." And what should we think of Laplace if he
were made bitter by the wider popularity of Dumas? Would he forfeit the
admiration of one philosopher for that of a thousand novel readers?
To ask this question is to answer it; yet daily experience tells us
that not only in lowering his standard, but in running after a
popularity incompatible with the nature of his talent, does many a
writer forfeit his chance of success. The novel and the drama, by
reason of their commanding influence over a large audience, often
seduce writers to forsake the path on which they could labour with some
success, but on which they know that only a very small audience can be
found; as if it were quantity more than quality, noise rather than
appreciation, which their mistaken desires sought. Unhappily for them,
they lose the substance, and only snap at the shadow. The audience may
be large, but it will not listen to them. The novel may be more popular
and more lucrative, when successful, than the history or the essay; but
to make it popular and lucrative the writer needs a special talent, and
this, as was before hinted, seems frequently forgotten by those who
take to novel writing. Nay, it is often forgotten by the critics; they
being, in general, men without the special talent themselves, set no
great value on it. They imagine that Invention may be replaced by
culture, and that clever "writing" will do duty for dramatic power.
They applaud the "drawing" of a character, which drawing turns out on
inspection to be little more than an epigrammatic enumeration of
particularities, the character thus "drawn" losing all individuality as
soon as speech and action are called upon. Indeed, there are two
mistakes very common among reviewers: one is the overvaluation of what
is usually considered as literary ability ("brilliant writing" it is
called; "literary tinsel" would be more descriptive) to the prejudice
of Invention and Individuality; the other is the overvaluation of what
they call "solid acquirements," which really mean no more than an
acquaintance with the classics. As a fact, literary ability and solid
acquirements are to be had in abundance; invention, humour, and
originality are excessively rare. It may be a painful reflection to
those who, having had a great deal of money spent on their education,
and having given a great deal of time to their solid aquirements, now
see genius and original power of all kinds more esteemed than their
learning; but they should reflect that what is learning now is only the
diffused form of what was once invention. "Solid acquirement" is the
genius of wits become the wisdom of reviewers.
IV.
Authors are styled an irritable race, and justly, if the epithet be
understood in its physiological rather than its moral sense. This
irritability, which responds to the slightest stimulus, leads to much
of the misdirection of talent we have been considering. The greatness
of an author consists in having a mind extremely irritable, and at the
same time steadfastly imperial:--irritable that no stimulus may be
inoperative, even in its most evanescent solicitations; imperial, that
no solicitation may divert him from his deliberately chosen aims. A
magisterial subjection of all dispersive influences, a concentration of
the mind upon the thing that has to be done, and a proud renunciation
of all means of effect which do not spontaneously connect themselves
with it--these are the rare qualities which mark out the man of genius.
In men of lesser calibre the mind is more constantly open to
determination from extrinsic influences. Their movement is not
self-determined, self-sustained. In men of still smaller calibre the
mind is entirely determined by extrinsic influences. They are prompted
to write poems by no musical instinct, but simply because great poems
have enchanted the world. They resolve to write novels upon the
vulgarest provocations: they see novels bringing money and fame; they
think there is no difficulty in the art. The novel will afford them an
opportunity of bringing in a variety of scattered details; scraps of
knowledge too scanty for an essay, and scraps of experience too meagre
for independent publication. Others, again, attempt histories, or works
of popular philosophy and science; not because they have any special
stores of knowledge, or because any striking novelty of conception
urges them to use up old material in a new shape, but simply because
they have just been reading with interest some work of history or
science, and are impatient to impart to others the knowledge they have
just acquired for themselves. Generally it may be remarked that the
pride which follows the sudden emancipation of the mind from ignorance
of any subject, is accompanied by a feeling that all the world must be
in the state of darkness from which we have ourselves emerged. It is
the knowledge learned yesterday which is most freely imparted today.