On the Art of Writing

norm, for they one and all offend against Art’s true maxim of avoiding excess.

And this brings me to the two great paradoxes of Style. For the first (1)⁠—although Style is so curiously personal and individual, and although men are so variously built that no two in the world carry away the same impressions from a show, there is always a norm somewhere; in literature and art, as in morality. Yes, even in man’s most terrific, most potent inventions⁠—when, for example, in Hamlet or in Lear Shakespeare seems to be breaking up the solid earth under our feet⁠—there is always some point and standard of sanity⁠—a Kent or an Horatio⁠—to which all enormities and passionate errors may be referred; to which the agitated mind of the spectator settles back as upon its centre of gravity, its pivot of repose.

(2) The second paradox, though it is equally true, you may find a little subtler. Yet it but applies to Art the simple truth of the Gospel, that he who would save his soul must first lose it. Though personality pervades Style and cannot be escaped, the first sin against Style as against good Manners is to obtrude or exploit personality. The very greatest work in Literature⁠—the Iliad, the Odyssey, the Purgatorio, The Tempest, Paradise Lost, the Republic, Don Quixote⁠—is all

Seraphically free
From taint of personality.

And Flaubert, that gladiator among artists, held that, at its highest, literary art could be carried into pure science. “I believe,” said he, “that great art is scientific and impersonal. You should by an intellectual effort transport yourself into characters, not draw them into yourself. That at least is the method.” On the other hand, says Goethe, “We should endeavour to use words that correspond as closely as possible with what we feel, see, think, imagine, experience, and reason. It is an endeavour we cannot evade and must daily renew.” I call Flaubert’s the better counsel, even though I have spent a part of this lecture in attempting to prove it impossible. It at least is noble, encouraging us to what is difficult. The shrewder Goethe encourages us to exploit ourselves to the top of our bent. I think Flaubert would have hit the mark if for “impersonal” he had substituted “disinterested.”

For⁠—believe me, Gentlemen⁠—so far as Handel stands above Chopin, as Velasquez above Greuze, even so far stand the great masculine objective writers above all who appeal to you by parade of personality or private sentiment.

Mention of these great masculine “objective” writers brings me to my last word: which is, “Steep yourselves in them: habitually bring all to the test of them: for while you cannot escape the fate of all style, which is to be personal, the more of catholic manhood you inherit from those great loins the more you will assuredly beget.”

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This then is Style. As technically manifested in Literature it is the power to touch with ease, grace, precision, any note in the gamut of human thought or emotion.

But essentially it resembles good manners. It comes of endeavouring to understand others, of thinking for them rather than for yourself⁠—of thinking, that is, with the heart as well as the head. It gives rather than receives; it is nobly careless of thanks or applause, not being fed by these but rather sustained and continually refreshed by an inward loyalty to the best. Yet, like “character” it has its altar within; to that retires for counsel, from that fetches its illumination, to ray outwards. Cultivate, Gentlemen, that habit of withdrawing to be advised by the best. So, says Fénelon, “you will find yourself infinitely quieter, your words will be fewer and more effectual; and while you make less ado, what you do will be more profitable.”

Endnotes

1. The date of the above lecture was Wednesday, February 12th, 1913, the date on which our morning newspapers printed the first telegrams giving particulars of the fate of Captain Scott’s heroic conquest of the South Pole, and still more glorious, though defeated, return. The first brief message concerning Captain Oates, ran as follows:⁠—

   “From the records found in the tent where the bodies were discovered it appeared that Captain Oates’s feet and hands were badly frostbitten, and, although he struggled on heroically, his comrades knew on March 16 that his end was approaching. He had borne intense suffering for weeks without complaint, and he did not give up hope to the very end.

   “ ‘He was a brave soul. He slept through the night hoping not to wake; but he awoke in the morning.

   “ ‘It was blowing a blizzard. Oates said: “I am just going outside, and I may be some time.” He went out into the blizzard, and we have not seen him since.

   “ ‘We knew that Oates was walking to his death, but though we tried to dissuade him, we knew it was the act of a brave man and an English gentleman.’ ”

   ↩

2. “Therefore I can sing and tell a tale, recount in the Mead Hall, how men of high race gave rich gifts to me. I was with Huns and with Hreth Goths, with the Swedes, and with the Geats, and with the South Danes; I was with the Wenlas, and with the Waernas, and with the Vikings; I was with the Gefthas and with the Winedae.⁠ ⁠…” ↩

3. Note the abstract terms. ↩

4. Here we first come on the concrete: and beautiful it is. ↩

5. Say “nay,” say “nay”; and don’t say, “the answer is in the negative.” ↩

6. Thought for to take
   Is not my mind;
   But to forsake

   This Principal of the Glasgow College of the United Free Church of Scotland⁠—

   Farewell unkiss’d!

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7. I append the following specimen translations of the famous passage in St. Paul’s First Epistle to the Corinthians 15:51 sqq. I choose this because (1) it is an important passage; (2) it touches a high moment of philosophising;