It undoubtedly objects to the very sensations
which an artist aims to give. If I have heard once, I have heard fifty
times resentful remarks similar to: "I'm not going to read any more bosh
by _him_! Why, I simply couldn't put the thing down!" It is profoundly
hostile to art, and the empire of art. It will not willingly yield. Its
attitude to the magic spell is its attitude to the dentist's gas-bag. This
is the most singular trait that I have discovered in the backbone.
* * * * *
Why, then, does the backbone put itself to the trouble of reading current
fiction? The answer is that it does so, not with any artistic, spiritual,
moral, or informative purpose, but simply in order to pass time. Lately,
one hears, it has been neglecting fiction in favour of books of memoirs,
often scandalous, and historical compilations, for the most part
scandalous sexually. That it should tire of the fiction offered to it is
not surprising, seeing that it so seldom gets the fiction of its dreams.
The supply of good, workmanlike fiction is much larger to-day than ever it
was in the past. The same is to be said of the supply of genuinely
distinguished fiction. But the supply of fiction which really appeals to
the backbone of the fiction-reading public is far below the demand.
Pages:
69
70
71
72
73
74
75
76
77
78
79
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
93