I will tell you what literature is! No--I only wish I could. But I
can't. No one can. Gleams can be thrown on the secret, inklings given,
but no more. I will try to give you an inkling. And, to do so, I will
take you back into your own history, or forward into it. That evening
when you went for a walk with your faithful friend, the friend from
whom you hid nothing--or almost nothing ...! You were, in truth,
somewhat inclined to hide from him the particular matter which
monopolised your mind that evening, but somehow you contrived to get
on to it, drawn by an overpowering fascination. And as your faithful
friend was sympathetic and discreet, and flattered you by a respectful
curiosity, you proceeded further and further into the said matter,
growing more and more confidential, until at last you cried out, in a
terrific whisper: "My boy, she is simply miraculous!" At that moment
you were in the domain of literature.
Let me explain. Of course, in the ordinary acceptation of the word,
she was not miraculous. Your faithful friend had never noticed that
she was miraculous, nor had about forty thousand other fairly keen
observers. She was just a girl. Troy had not been burnt for her. A
girl cannot be called a miracle.
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