Rather hard on the class that alone has made novel-writing a
profession in which a man can earn a reasonable livelihood!
* * * * *
The explanation of this state of affairs is obscure. True, that
distinguished artists are very seldom born into the class. But such an
explanation would be extremely inadequate. Artists often move creatively
with ease far beyond the boundaries of their native class. Thomas Hardy is
not a peasant, nor was Stendhal a marquis. I could not, with any sort of
confidence, offer an explanation. I am, however, convinced that only a
supreme artist could now handle successfully the material presented by the
class in question. The material itself lacks interest, lacks essential
vitality, lacks both moral and spectacular beauty. It powerfully repels
the searcher after beauty and energy. It may be in a decay. One cannot
easily recall a great work of art of which the subject is decadence.
The backbone of the novel-reading public is excessively difficult to
please, and rarely capable of enthusiasm. Listen to Mudie subscribers on
the topic of fiction, and you will scarcely ever hear the accent of
unmixed pleasure. It is surprising how even favourites are maltreated in
conversation. Some of the most successful favourites seem to be hated, and
to be read under protest.
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