My Literary Passions

Dean Howells William

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pubOne.info present you this new edition. The papers collected here under the name of 'My Literary Passions' were printed serially in a periodical of such vast circulation that they might well have been supposed to have found there all the acceptance that could be reasonably hoped for them. Nevertheless, they were reissued in a volume the year after they first appeared, in 1895, and they had a pleasing share of such favor as their author's books have enjoyed. But it is to be doubted whether any one liked reading them so much as he liked writing them- say, some time in the years 1893 and 1894, in a New York flat, where he could look from his lofty windows over two miles and a half of woodland in Central Park, and halloo his fancy wherever he chose in that faery realm of books which he re-entered in reminiscences perhaps too fond at times, and perhaps always too eager for the reader's following. The name was thought by the friendly editor of the popular publication where they were serialized a main part of such inspiration as they might be conjectured to have, and was, as seldom happens with editor and author, cordially agreed upon before they were begun

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• Histoire

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• Publié par: Pub One Info
• Date de parution: 06 novembre 2010
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9782819948001
• Langue: English

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BIBLIOGRAPHICAL.
The papers collected here under the name of 'MyLiterary Passions' were printed serially in a periodical of suchvast circulation that they might well have been supposed to havefound there all the acceptance that could be reasonably hoped forthem. Nevertheless, they were reissued in a volume the year afterthey first appeared, in 1895, and they had a pleasing share of suchfavor as their author's books have enjoyed. But it is to be doubtedwhether any one liked reading them so much as he liked writingthem— say, some time in the years 1893 and 1894, in a New Yorkflat, where he could look from his lofty windows over two miles anda half of woodland in Central Park, and halloo his fancy whereverhe chose in that faery realm of books which he re-entered inreminiscences perhaps too fond at times, and perhaps always tooeager for the reader's following. The name was thought by thefriendly editor of the popular publication where they wereserialized a main part of such inspiration as they might beconjectured to have, and was, as seldom happens with editor andauthor, cordially agreed upon before they were begun.
The name says, indeed, so exactly and so fully whatthey are that little remains for their bibliographer to add beyondthe meagre historical detail here given. Their short and simpleannals could be eked out by confidences which would not appreciablyenrich the materials of the literary history of their time, and itseems better to leave them to the imagination of such posterity asthey may reach. They are rather helplessly frank, but not, I hope,with all their rather helpless frankness, offensively frank. Theyare at least not part of the polemic which their author sustainedin the essays following them in this volume, and which might havebeen called, in conformity with 'My Literary Passions', by thetitle of 'My Literary Opinions' better than by the vague name whichthey actually wear.
They deal, to be sure, with the office of Criticismand the art of Fiction, and so far their present name is not amisnomer. It follows them from an earlier date and could not easilybe changed, and it may serve to recall to an elder generation thanthis the time when their author was breaking so many lances in thegreat, forgotten war between Realism and Romanticism that the floorof the “Editor's Study” in Harper's Magazine was strewn with theembattled splinters. The “Editor's Study” is now quite anotherplace, but he who originally imagined it in 1886, and abode in ituntil 1892, made it at once the scene of such constant offence thathe had no time, if he had the temper, for defence. The great Zola,or call him the immense Zola, was the prime mover in the attackupon the masters of the Romanticistic school; but he lived to ownthat he had fought a losing fight, and there are some proofs thathe was right. The Realists, who were undoubtedly the masters offiction in their passing generation, and who prevailed not only inFrance, but in Russia, in Scandinavia, in Spain, in Portugal, wereoverborne in all Anglo-Saxon countries by the innumerable hosts ofRomanticism, who to this day possess the land; though still,whenever a young novelist does work instantly recognizable for itstruth and beauty among us, he is seen and felt to have wrought inthe spirit of Realism. Not even yet, however, does the averagecritic recognize this, and such lesson as the “Editor's Study”assumed to teach remains here in all its essentials for hisimprovement.
Month after month for the six years in which the“Editor's Study” continued in the keeping of its first occupant,its lesson was more or less stormily delivered, to the exclusion,for the greater part, of other prophecy, but it has not been foundwell to keep the tempestuous manner along with the fulminant matterin this volume. When the author came to revise the material, hefound sins against taste which his zeal for righteousness could notsuffice to atone for. He did not hesitate to omit the proofs ofthese, and so far to make himself not only a precept, but anexample in criticism. He hopes that in other and slighter things hehas bettered his own instruction, and that in form and in fact thebook is altogether less crude and less rude than the papers fromwhich it has here been a second time evolved.
The papers, as they appeared from month to month,were not the product of those unities of time and place which werethe happy conditioning of 'My Literary Passions. ' They could nothave been written in quite so many places as times, but theyenjoyed a comparable variety of origin. Beginning in Boston, theywere continued in a Boston suburb, on the shores of Lake George, ina Western New York health resort, in Buffalo, in Nahant; once,twice, and thrice in New York, with reversions to Boston, andsummer excursions to the hills and waters of New England, until itseemed that their author had at last said his say, and hevoluntarily lapsed into silence with the applause of friends andenemies alike.
The papers had made him more of the last than of thefirst, but not as still appears to him with greater reason. Atmoments his deliverances seemed to stir people of different mindsto fury in two continents, so far as they were English-speaking,and on the coasts of the seven seas; and some of these came back athim with such violent personalities as it is his satisfaction toremember that he never indulged in his attacks upon their theoriesof criticism and fiction. His opinions were always impersonal; andnow as their manner rather than their make has been slightlytempered, it may surprise the belated reader to learn that it wasthe belief of one English critic that their author had “placedhimself beyond the pale of decency” by them. It ought to be lesssurprising that, since these dreadful words were written of him,more than one magnanimous Englishman has penitently expressed tothe author the feeling that he was not so far wrong in hisoverboldly hazarded convictions. The penitence of his countrymen isstill waiting expression, but it may come to that when they haverecurred to the evidences of his offence in their presentshape.
KITTERY POINT, MAINE, July, 1909.
MY LITERARY PASSIONS
I. THE BOOKCASE AT HOME
To give an account of one's reading is in some sortto give an account of one's life; and I hope that I shall notoffend those who follow me in these papers, if I cannot helpspeaking of myself in speaking of the authors I must call mymasters: my masters not because they taught me this or thatdirectly, but because I had such delight in them that I could notfail to teach myself from them whatever I was capable of learning.I do not know whether I have been what people call a great reader;I cannot claim even to have been a very wise reader; but I havealways been conscious of a high purpose to read much more, and morediscreetly, than I have ever really done, and probably it is fromthe vantage-ground of this good intention that I shall sometimes befound writing here rather than from the facts of the case.
But I am pretty sure that I began right, and that ifI had always kept the lofty level which I struck at the outset Ishould have the right to use authority in these reminiscenceswithout a bad conscience. I shall try not to use authority,however, and I do not expect to speak here of all my reading,whether it has been much or little, but only of those books, or ofthose authors that I have felt a genuine passion for. I have knownsuch passions at every period of my life, but it is mainly of theloves of my youth that I shall write, and I shall write all themore frankly because my own youth now seems to me rather more alienthan that of any other person.
I think that I came of a reading race, which hasalways loved literature in a way, and in spite of varying fortunesand many changes. From a letter of my great-grandmother's writtento a stubborn daughter upon some unfilial behavior, like runningaway to be married, I suspect that she was fond of the high-coloredfiction of her day, for she tells the wilful child that she has“planted a dagger in her mother's heart, ” and I should not besurprised if it were from this fine-languaged lady that mygrandfather derived his taste for poetry rather than from hisfather, who was of a worldly wiser mind. To be sure, he became aFriend by Convincement as the Quakers say, and so I cannot imaginethat he was altogether worldly; but he had an eye to the mainchance: he founded the industry of making flannels in the littleWelsh town where he lived, and he seems to have grown richer, forhis day and place, than any of us have since grown for ours. Mygrandfather, indeed, was concerned chiefly in getting away from theworld and its wickedness. He came to this country early in thenineteenth century and settled his family in a log-cabin in theOhio woods, that they might be safe from the sinister influences ofthe village where he was managing some woollen-mills. But he kepthis affection for certain poets of the graver, not to say gloomiersort, and he must have suffered his children to read them, pendingthat great question of their souls' salvation which was a lifelongtrouble to him.
My father, at any rate, had such a decided bent inthe direction of literature, that he was not content in any of hisseveral economical experiments till he became the editor of anewspaper, which was then the sole means of satisfying a literarypassion. His paper, at the date when I began to know him, was aliving, comfortable and decent, but without the least promise ofwealth in it, or the hope even of a much better condition. I thinknow that he was wise not to care for the advancement which most ofus have our hearts set upon, and that it was one of his finestqualities that he was content with a lot in life where he was notexempt from work with his hands, and yet where he was not sopressed by need but he could give himself at will not only to thethings of the spirit, but the things of the mind too. After aseason of scepticism he had become a reli