(for issue of August 7th)

Books & Persons
by Arnold Bennett

London
12.7.30

Of all critics, the literary critics are the most martyrised, except perhaps critics of the drama (which after all is a branch of literature). The musical critic attends a concert or, oftener, part of a concert. He has to deal with more familiar music than unfamiliar, and with more good music than bad. At the longest his ordeal lasts an hour and a half. An art critic can glance at a picture and in nearly all cases can decide in a moment whether according to his standards it is good or bad. The critic of tea, called in the City a tea-taster, an expert the delicacy of whose palate is worthy of his princely remuneration - never swallows what he tastes.

Whereas the literary critic, especially if he is in large practice, lives a continuous martyrdom. He has to deal with vastly more new books than old, and with vastly more mediocre or bad books than good. It takes much longer to read a book than to listen to a symphony. In rare instances the critic can decide from a single paragraph that a book is bad, for the reason that no author capable of the bad paragraph could be capable of writing a good book. But if the critic hasto give an account of the book he must read it all the same. And he is bound to swallow what he tastes. Willy nilly it gets into his system, producing effects sinister and unavoidable. In this respect the literary critic is in the same box as the old hand-worker in earthenware manufactories. Critics have been known to contract mortal "occupational diseases" of the mind

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from a steady diet of bad books. All literary critics will agree
with me as to the dangers of the craft.

Not that I am inveighing against mediocre books.
They are a necessity of human nature. Mediocre means middling.
Whatever they may be the majority of people in every section of
life are and must be middling. The majority of our authors are
and must be middling. And it is well that they should be so.
Middling people best appreciate middling books. And why not?
No sin is there. Every man is entitled to gratify his personal
taste. The man who likes an under-cooked book is no more a
criminal than the man who likes over-cooked meat (as most British
citizens do).

It is soundly right that mediocre authors should
prosper, and they do prosper. Indeed they flourish more
luxuriantly than really good authors. The biggest circulations
are not those which achieve even notoriety. They are the quiet
circulations of harmless mediocrity. When Sinclair Lewis is
exalted he asserts that his books have the biggest circulation
in America next to the Bible. But I doubt this statement. I
imagine that the circulations of the books of that stupendous
mediocrity Harold Bell Wright surpass those of the creator of
"Babbitt". I could give countless comparisons for Britain.
But discretion and decency forbid. Britain is not three thousand
miles off. I sometimes wish it was. I am often reproached for
the vivacity of my remarks on books. But in reality I restrain
myself with extraordinary force. If Britain were three thousand
miles off I believe my vivacity would rival that of H. L. Mencken
and G. J. Nathan for whom Britain is three thousand miles off.

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Now the chief business and pleasure of the literary
critic should be to uphold the highest standards of literature.
In other words he should be the foe of mediocrity. There are a
hundred reasons why he should treat honest mediocrity with the
respect which assuredly it deserves; but one can fight a foe
while respecting him, and the critic who wishes to find himself
in a safe place on the Day of Judgment should fight the foe all
the time. Does he? The majority do not. They yield insensibly
to the terrible, the insinuating, the enervating, the septic
influences of the "pabulum" which they are daily compelled to
swallow for a livelihood. They make more and more compromises
until they compromise themselves so far that in the end they
actually prefer mediocrity to excellence. They eat and drink
mediocrity until they become mediocrity, with all mediocrity's
detestation of original excellence. Thus mediocrity triumphs
over them, and they cease bravely to bite the hand that feeds
them. Oh! The sweet but cankerous ease of compromise. Herein
is the reason why the bulk of book-reviewing is too benevolent.
And, you know, almost all reviews really are too benevolent.

The small minority of critics who escape the
dread infection of mediocrity have one great quality in common.
They possess powerful individualities. Just as physically
vigorous men throw off diseases of the body, so do these few
critics resist the onset of moral contagion. It is essential
that first-rate literary critics should have an enthusiasm for
literature, and all critics over a certain age are in fact
enthusiastic, for if they are not they abandon reviewing after
a few years and go in for coal-mining or bus-driving or some
such relatively lighter occupation. It is advisable that they
should have knowledge, for knowledge fortifies. It is advisable

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that they should have taste, for taste guides. But above all,
before all, they must have powerful individualities. It is not
what a man knows that counts in literary criticism; nor what he
prefers; but what he is.

There are monstrously learned critics who are
nincompoops. They lack individuality. There are refined critics
who would run away from a rabbit. They lack individuality.
Individuality comes first. Good taste is better than bad taste,
but bad taste is better than no taste, and men without individuality
have no taste - at any rate no taste which they can impose on
their publics.

All the great critics have had great individu-
alities. None has had perfect taste. Every one of them has
committed outrageous errors of judgment, due either to the most
deplorable ignorance or the most rampant prejudice. But they
have had something to express: namely themselves. Hence they
have always been interesting and provocative of thought. Literary
criticism is not merely a report on a book: it is a report of
the reaction of an individuality to a book. Cushions, putty,
mashed potatoes do not react.

I am well aware that I have been exaggerating
and over-simplifying, but in order to put a truth across the
footlights it is convenient, even necessary, to do this. And
the reader knows what I mean.