I am referring to the distant past of a dozen years ago, before
William de Morgan was born, and before America and Elinor Glyn had
discovered each other. Last week many newspapers dismissed the entire
fiction of 1910 in a single paragraph. The consequence is that there has
been no "book of the year." A critic without space to spread himself
hesitates to pronounce downright for a particular book. A critic engaged
in the dangerous art of creating the "book of the year" wants room to
hedge, and in the newest journalism there is no room to hedge. So the
critic refrains from the act of creation. He imitates the discretion of
the sporting tipster, who names several horses as being likely to win one
race. "Among the books of the year are Blank, Blank, and Blank," he says.
(But what he means is, "The book of the year is to be found among Blank,
Blank, and Blank.") Naturally he selects among the books whose titles come
into his head with the least difficulty; that is to say, the books which
he has most recently reviewed; that is to say, the books published during
the autumn season. No doubt during the spring season he has distinguished
several books as being "great," "masterly," "unforgettable," "genius"; but
ere the fall of the leaf these works have completely escaped from his
memory.
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