The Principles of Success in Literature | Page 4

the preparation of the public mind
through the works which for a time eclipsed it?
Let us look candidly at this matter. It interests us all; for we have all
more or less to contend against public misconception, no less than
against our own defects. The object of Literature is to instruct, to
animate, or to amuse. Any book which does one of these things
succeeds; any book which does none of these things fails. Failure is the
indication of an inability to perform what was attempted: the aim was
misdirected, or the arm was too weak: in either case the mark has not
been hit.
"The public taste is degraded." Perhaps so; and perhaps not. But in
granting a want of due preparation in the public, we only grant that the
author has missed his aim. A reader cannot be expected to be interested
in ideas which are not presented intelligibly to him, nor delighted by art
which does not touch him; and for the writer to imply that he furnishes
arguments, but does not pretend to furnish brains to understand the
arguments, is arrogance. What Goethe says about the most legible
handwriting being illegible in the twilight, is doubtless true; and should
be oftener borne in mind by frivolous objectors, who declare they do
not understand this or do not admire that, as if their want of taste and
understanding were rather creditable than otherwise, and were decisive
proofs of an author's insignificance. But this reproof, which is telling
against individuals, has no justice as against the public. For--and this is
generally lost sight of--the public is composed of the class or classes
directly addressed by any work, and not of the heterogeneous mass of
readers. Mathematicians do not write for the circulating library. Science
is not addressed to poets. Philosophy is meant for students, not for idle
readers. If the members of a class do not understand--if those directly
addressed fail to listen, or listening, fail to recognise a power in the
voice--surely the fault lies with the speaker, who, having attempted to

secure their attention and enlighten their understandings, has failed in
the attempt? The mathematician who is without value to
mathematicians, the thinker who is obscure or meaningless to thinkers,
the dramatist who fails to move the pit, may be wise, may be eminent,
but as an author he has failed. He attempted to make his wisdom and
his power operate on the minds of others. He has missed his mark.
MARGARITAS ANTE PORCOS! is the soothing maxim of a
disappointed self-love. But we, who look on, may sometimes doubt
whether they WERE pearls thus ineffectually thrown; and always doubt
the judiciousness of strewing pearls before swine. The prosperity of a
book lies in the minds of readers. Public knowledge and public taste
fluctuate; and there come times when works which were once capable
of instructing and delighting thousands lose their power, and works,
before neglected, emerge into renown. A small minority to whom these
works appealed has gradually become a large minority, and in the
evolution of opinion will perhaps become the majority. No man can
pretend to say that the work neglected today will not be a household
word tomorrow; or that the pride and glory of our age will not be
covered with cobwebs on the bookshelves of our children. Those works
alone can have enduring success which successfully appeal to what is
permanent in human nature--which, while suiting the taste of the day,
contain truths and beauty deeper than the opinions and tastes of the day;
but even temperary success implies a certain temporary fitness. In
Homer, Sophocles, Dante, Shakspeare, Cervantes, we are made aware
of much that no longer accords with the wisdom or the taste of our
day--temporary and immature expressions of fluctuating opinions--but
we are also aware of much that is both true and noble now, and will be
so for ever.
It is only posterity that can decide whether the success or failure shall
be enduring; for it is only posterity that can reveal whether the relation
now existing between the work and the public mind is or is not liable to
fluctuation. Yet no man really writes for posterity; no man ought to do
so.
"Wer machte denn der Mitwelt Spass?"
("Who is to amuse the present?") asks the wise Merry Andrew in
FAUST. We must leave posterity to choose its own idols. There is,
however, this chance in favour of any work which has once achieved

success, that what has pleased one generation may please another,
because it may be based upon a truth or beauty which cannot die; and
there is this chance against any work which has once failed, that its
unfitness may be owing to some falsehood or imperfection which
cannot live.
III.
In