Evening star., 1932-07-26

OF them, too, 1t must be said that
they wrote what they wanted to write,
with this difference, that great and
instant success Immediately dictated the
writing of more of the same.
When Dickens wrote of his Oliver
Twist holding up his plate and demand
ing, "More!" he also drew pretty good
picture Of the English-reading world.
"Morel" was the cry, and the writer
was forced to supply it.
In our own day j. B. Priestley turned
out two such successful stories, THE
Good Companions" and "Angel Pave
ment," that the public ever since has
been demanding another. It Is forth
coming near the end Of this month,
after a couple Of years wait, during
which time young Mr.. Priestley Travelled
across the United States and far into
| the Pacific to get his material.
1t will be an interesting exercise in
ones powers of appreciation to read this
! forthcoming novel, and to decide for
ones self whether or not the writer
wrote the book because he wanted to,
out of sheer desire to tell a story. to
say his say again, or whether he did
it because success demanded more Of
the same. to wit. more Priestley.
Alexandra Dumas was another pro-
/ life writer who wrote what he wrote
largely because his public insisted upon
more stories and still more stories.
| His genius was such a bubbling spring,
! however, that no amount of sheer ap-
plication seemed to dim the luster of
his wares.
Whatever he wrote, until his last day.
was infused with sort of irresistible
gayety OF spirit which prevented dull
ness in any form from creeping in. He
was interested himself, and that in
sured that his proper readers would be
interested.
Emile Zola, on the other hand, wrote
too much. His last half dozen works,
although on the surface written in ex-
actly the same naturalistic manner as
his greatest novels, somehow lacked
the spontaneity of the former, and al
most all of the true interest. They
were dictated by the overwhelming god,
Success, who stood at the great mans
shoulder, and kept saying, You can
do it again; there is money in 1t and
fame; go aheadi" Zola fooled himself,
in his later days, by telling himself that
he had various messages" for man
kind. He was conscious of his position,
whereas in the days when he was build
ing up that position he had no con-
SClOuS ulcoodSC, OIllJ d Dul1l1ilS COil-
viction that truth and justice were the
greatest things in the life of man.
All that we have written here is but
an attempt to say, what surely few
would dispute, that the mere bulk Of
a mans writing, II he Is among the
immortals, does not have any particu-
lar standing. The quantity Of lhem is
merely incidental, and at the best ,ather
hindrance than help.
Dickens never wrote a better story,
In some ways, than his "Pickwick Pa
pers," nor Stevenson than his Treasure
Island" Their subsequent books were
merely a striving Of the human spirit
to do it again.
This striving has its place, great
and sure place, but also quietness has
its place, and no doubt many more
successful writer would be willing to
admit that he envied the deft surenesS
with which Kenneth Grahame stepped
books, still read by old-fashioned peo-
pie. Titus Carus Lucretius, better
known today by his last name alone,
wrote but one book of any moment, but
as long as men delve backward in the
living stream of books they will come
upon "Of the Nature Of Things" with
inaudible gasps of delight.
We are so used today to look upon
authorship as o sort of game, in which
the successful prove their success by
shoveling out books at the rate of at
least one a year, that 1t is refreshing to
remember the many good writer's, OF
whom Mr.. Grahame was one, who took
their authorship as quietly as they did
their breakfast, and who wrote when
and how 1t pleased them.