Browning is swept on into generalization
anddeclamation.
But to theVictorians, undoubtedly, the book was
very dear. Geraldine was actually dressing for the occasion when Mr.
Smith Elders readersummed up the situation tersely
enough.
Gissing, indeed, never ceased to educate
himself.
His is one of thosesharp lights beyond whose edges
all is vapour and phantom.
It is in talk that thehigh moments of life, the
shock of character upon character, aredefined.
He was anEnglish gentleman merely, and a poor one
at that.
We tend to get moreand more portraits of the
successful and the distinguished. Carlylehoped to get through some necessary
civilities to admirers in hisabsence. Carlylehoped to get through some necessary
civilities to admirers in hisabsence.
Directly we see ourselves in the looking-glass of
fiction we knowthat this is so. Her letters show that she had had the bookin mind
for many years.
The tap of ivy on the pane became the thrash
oftrees in a gale.
Only natural differences such as those of brain and
characterwill serve to distinguish us. Why dont people writeabout the really
important things of life?
Certainly,there is compensation to a
degree.
Geraldine was no fool inspite of appearances.
Nobodyreads her, nobody discusses her, nobody troubles to put her in
herplace.
We shall never know what the Court ofLouis XIV
looked like to Louis XIV himself.
The writer has dined upon lentils; he gets up at
five; hewalks across London; he finds Mr. Blank verse has proved itself the
mostremorseless enemy of living speech.
Why should these spoils fallsolely into the laps of
the prose writers? We know her well only for a few years in themiddle.
Compliments that would have flattered aduchess were
presented with equal ceremony to a child.
His laugh curled round his sentences as if he
himselfenjoyed their humorous exaggeration. What damagethe art of photography has
inflicted upon the art of literature hasyet to be reckoned. They are no longer, as
they used to be when Chaucer wrote,simply themselves.
For thehighest in the land have seldom written at
all, and have neverwritten about themselves. To neithercould he speak the simple
language of daily life. For it becomes clear as we read that, whatever Mrs. But our
ignorance of the aristocracy is nothing compared with ourignorance of the working
classes. But to theVictorians, undoubtedly, the book was very dear. She raced
through folios because she wasforbidden to scamper on the grass. We are enclosed,
and separate, and cut off.
Blank verse has proved itself the mostremorseless
enemy of living speech. Nobodyreads her, nobody discusses her, nobody troubles to
put her in herplace. We shall never know what the Court ofLouis XIV looked like to
Louis XIV himself.
Her importance, they say, has now become
merelyhistorical.