They shine at tea, at dinner, and after dinner. They talk more
easily than he does, and write more easily too. They can express
themselves more readily. And they know such a deuce of a lot. And they can
balance pros and cons with astonishing virtuosity. The Press is their
washpot. And they are influential in other places. They can get pensions
for their favourites. They know the latest methods of pulling an artichoke
to pieces. And they will say among themselves, forgiving but slightly
pained: "Yes, he's written a very remarkable novel, but he doesn't know
how to eat an artichoke." They would be higher than the angels were it not
for the fact that, in art, they are exquisitely and perfectly footling.
They cannot believe this, the public cannot believe it. Nevertheless,
every artist knows it to be true. They have never done anything themselves
except fuss around.
* * * * *
As for us, we are their hobby. And since unoriginality is their most
striking characteristic, some of us are occasionally pretty nearly hobbied
to extinction by them. In every generation they select some artist,
usually for reasons quite unconnected with art, and put him exceedingly
high up in a niche by himself. And when you name his name you must hush
your voice, and discussion ends.
Pages:
176
177
178
179
180
181
182
183
184
185
186
187
188
189
190
191
192
193
194
195
196
197
198
199
200