The Principles of Success in Literature | Page 7

these expressions, which, standing unexplained and
unillustrated, probably convey very little meaning. We shall then see
that every work, no matter what its subject-matter, necessarily involves
these three principles in varying degrees; and that its success is always
strictly in accordance with its conformity to the guidance of these
principles.
Unless a writer has what, for the sake of brevity, I have called Vision,
enabling him to see clearly the facts or ideas, the objects or relations,
which he places before us for our own instruction, his work must
obviously be defective. He must see clearly if we are to see clearly.
Unless a writer has Sincerity, urging him to place before us what he
sees and believes as he sees and believes it, the defective earnestness of
his presentation will cause an imperfect sympathy in us. He must
believe what he says, or we shall not believe it. Insincerity is always
weakness; sincerity even in error is strength. This is not so obvious a
principle as the first; at any rate it is one more profoundly disregarded
by writers.
Finally, unless the writer has grace--the principle of Beauty I have
named it--enabling him to give some aesthetic charm to his
presentation, were it only the charm of well-arranged material, and
well-constructed sentences, a charm sensible through all the intricacies
of COMPOSITION and of STYLE, he will not do justice to his powers,
and will either fail to make his work acceptable, or will very seriously
limit its success. The amount of influence issuing from this principle of
Beauty will, of course, be greatly determined by the more or less
aesthetic nature of the work.
Books minister to our knowledge, to our guidance, and to our delight,
by their truth, their uprightness, and their art. Truth is the aim of
Literature. Sincerity is moral truth. Beauty is aesthetic truth. How
rigorously these three principles determine the success of all works
whatever, and how rigorously every departure from them, no matter
how slight, determines proportional failure, with the inexorable
sequence of a physical law, it will be my endeavour to prove in the
chapters which are to follow.
EDITOR.

CHAPTER II
THE PRINCIPLE OF VISION.
All good Literature rests primarily on insight. All bad Literature rests
upon imperfect insight, or upon imitation, which may be defined as
seeing at second-hand.
There are men of clear insight who never become authors: some,
because no sufficient solicitation from internal or external impulses
makes them bond their energies to the task of giving literary expression
to their thoughts; and some, because they lack the adequate powers of
literary expression. But no man, be his felicity and facility of
expression what they may, ever produces good Literature unless he sees
for himself, and sees clearly. It is the very claim and purpose of
Literature to show others what they failed to see. Unless a man sees this
clearly for himself how can he show it to others?
Literature delivers tidings of the world within and the world without. It
tells of the facts which have been witnessed, reproduces the emotions
which have been felt. It places before the reader symbols which
represent the absent facts, or the relations of these to other facts; and by
the vivid presentation of the symbols of emotion kindles the emotive
sympathy of readers. The art of selecting the fitting symbols, and of so
arranging them as to be intelligible and kindling, distinguishes the great
writer from the great thinker; it is an art which also relies on clear
insight.
The value of the tidings brought by Literature is determined by their
authenticity. At all times the air is noisy with rumours, but the real
business of life is transacted on clear insight and authentic speech.
False tidings and idle rumours may for an hour clamorously usurp
attention, because they are believed to be true; but the cheat is soon
discovered, and the rumour dies. In like manner Literature which is
unauthentic may succeed as long as it is believed to be true: that is, so
long as our intellects have not discovered the falseness of its

pretensions, and our feelings have not disowned sympathy with its
expressions. These may be truisms, but they are constantly disregarded.
Writers have seldom any steadfast conviction that it is of primary
necessity for them to deliver tidings about what they themselves have
seen and felt. Perhaps their intimate consciousness assures them that
what they have seen or felt is neither new nor important. It may not be
new, it may not be intrinsically important; nevertheless, if authentic, it
has its value, and a far greater value than anything reported by them at
second-hand. We cannot demand from every man that he have unusual
depth of insight or exceptional experience; but we demand of him that