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diff --git a/old/66600-0.txt b/old/66600-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 8c0d4ab..0000000 --- a/old/66600-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,3927 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg eBook of Short Story-Writing: An Art or a -Trade?, by N. Bryllion Fagin - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and -most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms -of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you -will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before -using this eBook. - -Title: Short Story-Writing: An Art or a Trade? - -Author: N. Bryllion Fagin - -Release Date: October 23, 2021 [eBook #66600] - -Language: English - -Produced by: Charlene Taylor, Eleni Christofaki and the Online - Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This - file was produced from images generously made available by - The Internet Archive/American Libraries.) - -*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SHORT STORY-WRITING: AN ART -OR A TRADE? *** - - - - - -Transcriber’s note - -Variable spelling and hyphenation have been retained. Minor punctuation -inconsistencies have been silently repaired. A list of the changes made -can be found at the end of the book. Formatting and special characters -are indicated as follows: - - _italic_ - - - - -SHORT STORY WRITING: _An Art or a Trade?_ - - - - - SHORT STORY-WRITING - _An Art or a Trade?_ - - _by_ - - N. BRYLLION FAGIN - - Dean of the School of Literary Arts, Research University, Washington, - D. C., and instructor in Short Story Writing, University of Maryland. - - [Illustration] - - NEW YORK - THOMAS SELTZER, INC. - 1923 - - - - - Copyright, 1923, by - THOMAS SELTZER, INC. - - _All Rights Reserved_ - - PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA - - - - -CONTENTS - - - CHAPTER PAGE - - I OVERTURE 1 - - II ACTION 12 - - III “O. HENRYISM” 29 - - IV THE MOVING PICTURES 48 - - V VERBOTEN 67 - - VI THE ARTIFICIAL ENDING 101 - - VII FORM AND SUBSTANCE 114 - - VIII FINALE 125 - - IX EFFECT 132 - - INDEX 137 - - - - -SHORT STORY WRITING: - -_An Art or a Trade_? - - - - -CHAPTER I - -OVERTURE - - -Moods may be uncomfortable, and sad, and painfully disturbing, but, on -the other hand, they make pleasant music occasionally. Here I sit in -the dusk, looking out into the street that is ordinarily so familiar -to me, but has suddenly become blurred and weirdly mysterious in -the gathering murk. A veil is over my eyes, which see the familiar -houses across the street, the young poplars in front of them, the few -passers-by. But my mind does not discern these objects; it sees far -subtler things--floating, flimsy, evanescent. The dusk is in my mind, -evoking thoughts, illusions, pictures--and speaking, questioning, -singing. The dusk is an overture to the things I have set out to say, -playing innumerable variations of my theme, whispering in every note: -“Stories, Stories, Stories!” - -There are so many stories afloat in the world! Every door and window and -curtain and shade has a story to tell; every clod and tree and leaf; -and every pebble of a human being washed by the waves of life. And -how many of these stories have I helped to be told? And how many have -I helped to be maimed, mutilated of soul? Yes, and how many have I -helped to kill? - -For I have been teaching, for a number of years, the “Technique of -Short Story-Writing,” and my guidance and judgment have meant life and -death to countless stories born in the breasts and minds of trustful -people. I have been the great discourager and encourager of genius and -quasi-genius, and I know my hands are not without stain of literary -blood. - -I am not reproaching myself. Among the many hundreds of men and women -who derive their daily bread and clothes and gasoline by directing -the story-fancy of the country’s million or more literary aspirants, -I class myself among the most conscientious and least harmful. The -share of injury I may have contributed has simply been the unavoidable -accompaniment of being engaged in a profession grounded upon the -popular belief that literature is a trade, like plumbing, or tailoring, -or hod-carrying, and requires but an understanding of the stupendous -emoluments involved and a will to learn. That it is in the interests -of the profession to foster and perpetuate this popular belief needs -no elaborate substantiation. But that the belief itself should be -based on a measure of solid truth is a sardonic phenomenon calling for -enlightening discussion. - -Professor Arlo Bates in one of his talks on writing English once -said: “Given a reasonable intelligence and sufficient patience, any -man with the smallest gifts may learn to write at least marketable -stuff, and may earn an honest livelihood, if he studies the taste of -the least exacting portion of the public, and accommodates himself -to the whim of the time.” It is the business of my profession to -dedicate its services to the promotion of the production of this -“marketable stuff,” and to elevate its own calling it has blatantly -labeled this product as “literature.” With this end in view numerous -textbooks have been written, thousands of magazine articles have been -published, and millions of copies of pamphlets and other advertising -matter distributed broadcast over the country. The magic slogan is -“Writers are made--not born!” Then follows a “heart-to-heart” talk on -the advantages of a literary career, and the flourishing of some dozen -notable successes, measured in formidable numbers of dollars received, -usually headed by Jack London and ending with Fannie Hurst or some -still more recent “arrival,” and finally concluding with the weighty -query, explicitly propounded or subtly implied: “Why aren’t you a story -writer?” - -The young man or young woman just out of the gray portals of some -fresh-water college and not knowing what to turn to next, or the -insipid clerk dreaming over his ledger, or her typewriter, of some -Tyltyl cap thus suddenly comes into possession of a startling idea. -Why not be a story writer? The work does not seem hard; compensation -is said to be good; and one is master of one’s own time and destiny. -The would-be casts his lot on the side of practical reasoning, pays in -a sum of money to a school of fiction-writing or enrolls for a course -with one of our universities, buys a typewriter on the installment -plan, and begins to collect editorial rejection slips. When the course -is completed another one is taken up, perhaps with another school, thus -crediting all lack of achievement to the insufficiency or inefficiency -of the instruction received so far, and the typewriter continues -to click and the periodic comings of the postman are again awaited -eagerly; for hadn’t a major part of the instruction been devoted to the -inculcation of the conviction that the world is exceedingly tardy in -extending its acknowledgment of genius? Why, think of Jack London; read -his “Martin Eden”--biographical, you know. Then, Masefield, dishwashing -in New York, and returning to England to become the foremost poet of -the day; and Maupassant working away at his little masterpieces for -seven long years before even venturing to bring them before the cold -light of the unappreciative world; and Kipling, knocking about the -streets of New York with his wonderful Indian stories in his pockets -and no editor or publisher willing to look at them; and Knut Hamsun, -working as a common farm hand in North Dakota, and later as a common -conductor collecting fares on a Chicago street-car line, finally -returning to his native Norway to fame and fortune and, ultimately, to -a Nobel prize in literature. Then think of our own more recent story -writers--Hergesheimer, writing away in obscurity for fourteen years; -Fannie Hurst, submitting thirty-five stories to one periodical and -succeeding with the thirty-sixth--and now receiving $1800 for every -short story she writes, you know--etc., etc. - -Fully ninety per cent. never do succeed and finally become discouraged -and drop out of the ranks. Of the other ten per cent. many live to -see their names in print over a story or poem or article in some -obscure periodical, while a few ultimately become our best sellers and -their names adorn the conspicuous pages in our most popular fiction -periodicals. Among the ninety per cent. are the hopelessly incompetent, -with a sprinkling of artistic idealists who utterly fail to accommodate -themselves to the taste of the public and the whim of the time. Among -the ten per cent. are the keen, shrewd, practical craftsmen who are -able to get at the spirit of the literary mart. To the chosen ones -among these comes the adulation of the populace and the golden shekels -blazing a glittering path across the pages of special feature articles -in our Sunday newspapers. And these are the writers who justify my -profession in spreading the gospel that one needs but a will to learn -to achieve a successful literary career. - -If, with some such unpopular fellow as Nietzsche, we should rise to -a sublime pinnacle of contemptuous detachment, we might say that the -ninety per cent. of failures do not deserve our pity. It is best for -a fighting, competitive world that weaklings and incompetents are -failures. We might even say that the few artistic idealists among them -deserve no better. Life is a process of adaptation and compromise and, -among men, a pair of sturdy legs are of greater utility than a pair -of feeble wings. Perhaps there is a stern justice in the fate of a -Chatterton or, say, a François Villon. But is it not equally possible -that by the grim, whimsical jugglings of the gods a mist may sometimes -envelop the battlefield of men, such let us say, as brought confusion -to the last hordes of the noble Arthur, when - - “... friend and foe were shadows in the mist, - And friend slew friend not knowing whom he slew; - ... and in the mist - Was many a noble deed, many a base, - And chance and craft...”? - -Verily, such a “death-white” mist does envelop our literary -battlefield, and, in the confusion, my profession, supported by the -vast majority of editors and professional critics, is aiding the weak -to conquer the strong. Blinded by the mist, we aid aspirants to rise -to power by craft and cunning, and when they emerge to reign for a -single day we crown them, thus contributing to the future nothing but -the dust of our petty kings. Those who would reign for centuries are -jeered at, discouraged, vanquished. - -A dozen names leap to mind--pathetic examples of great talent forced -to decay, of great sincerity diluted and polluted, of noble fires -extinguished. But of all these names the two most pregnant with tragedy -are those of Mark Twain and Jack London. The author of “Huckleberry -Finn” and “Tom Sawyer,” deep, penetrating, cynical, was obliged to -play the amusing clown until the end. The author of “The Call of the -Wild” and “Martin Eden” until his dying breath continued to fill his -lucrative contracts with popular claptrap. If no one in particular can -be blamed, the sickly light shining upon our literary firmament must -take responsibility. There are formative years when a writer’s talent -matures, mellows, is molded. The attitude of the populace and, above -all, of the oracles on the mountains and in the temples is eagerly -watched and heeded. In the case of Jack London the influence of this -attitude as a determining factor in the evolution of his career is a -matter of record. One of the editors of _The Seven Arts_, a monthly -magazine that was too lofty of purpose and too pure of policy to -continue existence, once invited Jack London to submit any stories he -might have that had failed of acceptance with the popular magazines -because of lack of adaptation. London’s reply was that no such stories -existed, and concluded with a statement that explains very ingenuously -the melancholy disillusionment that pervades the best of his work. “I -don’t mind telling you,” he wrote, “that had the United States been as -kindly toward the short story writer as France has always been kindly, -from the beginning of my writing career I would have written many a -score of short stories quite different from the ones I have written.”[1] - -It is clear, of course, to what particular brand of kindliness London -had reference. For the United States is kindly toward the short story -writer, very kindly indeed. It was kindly toward Jack London--but not -in the way of helping him to bring forth the best that was in him. -And this was his tragedy--and therein lies the unkindliness of the -United States toward all its short story writers. It wanted none of -the work of Jack London the man with a soul and genuine emotions which -burned for expression; it remunerated lavishly Jack London the writer -chap for his artificial concoctions that he despised. It made Joseph -Hergesheimer wait fourteen years for the most moderate recognition -while giving such a writer as H. C. Witwer almost instantaneous -acclaim. It calls Ellis Parker Butler a great humorist and George Ade -a mere fable writer. It proclaims O. Henry a prince of story writers -and doesn’t even know that the unfortunate Ambrose Bierce once lived -among us. And the vast majority of priests and oracles in my profession -persist in justifying and perpetuating this kind unkindliness and in -instructing the new generation according to its tenets. Example par -excellence: Speaks an instructor in story writing in one of our leading -universities, in a critical and biographical survey of our short story -writers, of “Robert W. Chambers, imaginative artist,” and of Jack -London, “at best a third-rate writer.”[2] - -The sum and substance of all we preach may be summarized in the one -commandment we zealously enforce above all others: “Thou shalt not -write anything an editor won’t buy.” Then we analyze what editors do -buy, arriving, by the process of induction, at rules and regulations, -which we promptly proceed to incorporate into textbooks for the -unlettered. Some of our rules are flexible, others are not, depending -solely upon the attitude of their compiler. An editor of a prominent -periodical once outlined the qualifications that recommended a literary -offering to him. He had set up before him an ideal reader, an imaginary -lady with a family of daughters up in Vermont, and any manuscript -submitted to him had to answer satisfactorily this mighty query: -“Would the old lady want her daughters to read this?” If this editor -happened to write a textbook for the instruction of the would-be story -writer, the old-lady-and-daughters question would undoubtedly figure -quite prominently therein. I am not aware of any textbook on the -subject by this gentleman, but other writers have had this question, or -similar ones, in mind in evolving laws for the would-be successful. - -I admit that I have taught people to answer these mighty queries, -before permitting them to entrust their precious wares to the Post -Office. For most editors have a question of some sort-- Will it please -some imaginary old man, or country girl, or young parson, or the -editor’s own blue-eyed little girl, or, especially, his advertisers; -and when a man or a woman pays hard-earned dollars for the information -of how to “get by” the unfriendly editor, my professional ethics demand -that I supply this information to the limits of my knowledge. Moreover, -when a man or a woman hands in a story which has no earthly chance -of being accepted by any magazine because it is burdened with a soul -which violates every tradition and rule and policy by which magazines -are governed, it becomes my duty to enlighten this student that his -is not the way to “get by.” For even such a student--an exception, -to be sure--has read our advertising literature, has studied the -popular psychology of success, and often, like the other plodders, -sincerely believes that a published story is a masterpiece, a rejected -one worthless. If a story brings five dollars it is a poor one; if it -brings fifty it is a good one; if it brings five hundred it is a work -of art. Getting-by, then, becomes the supreme problem, and getting-by -means having in mind the old lady with her daughters or the old man -with the gout. And who can answer what becomes of poor Lafcadio Hearn’s -queer idea that - - “Literary success of any enduring kind is made only by refusing to - do what publishers want, by refusing to write what the public want, - by refusing to accept any popular standard, by refusing to write - anything to order”? - -Poor, poor indeed! - - - - -CHAPTER II - -ACTION - - -The very first rule our textbooks endeavor to impress upon the would-be -story writer is that action must dominate his story. Whole chapters -are devoted to the importance of this ingredient, bringing quotations -from sundry editors proving beyond the merest suspicion of a doubt that -action is the life and health of a story, the “punch” and “pep” and -“pull” of it. Then follow chapters on how to capture action; on how to -introduce it into one’s own stories; on how to govern its course to the -greatest advantage. - -The editors quoted are, of course, all of the adventure and action type -magazines. One is reputed to have stated his ideal beginning of a story -to be something like this: “He got up and looked at his watch. It was -twelve o’clock. He went up into the garret and hanged himself.” Another -is said to like a more mystifying beginning, something like this: “Who -was the lady in 43? Was she the blond man’s wife, sister or sweetheart? -John couldn’t sleep nights trying to find out.” And still another gives -his preferences, in the form of an announcement of a contest widely -advertised in professional magazines, for stories of “plot, of action, -of interesting complication. Spend the sweat of your brow on deeds, not -on acute character analysis; on big situations, on suspense and appeal, -not in tedious description and fine writing.” - -The few editors who express preferences that conflict with this cry -for action are not quoted. Here is one, for instance, who likes -“realistic and psychological stories from writers who want to do for -American life what Chekhov did for Russian life. ‘Plot’ fiction of the -type desired by popular magazines is not wanted.” But, then, there is -the implication that his is not a popular magazine, and besides, he -goes on to say that “our rates for fiction are very modest.” And here -is another editor who wants stories “that are characterized more by -feeling and artistry than by ‘punch.’” But who is she, for it is a she -in this instance, to tell us what is wanted! Why, the circulation of -her little periodical is so insignificant that she is hardly justified -in having any wants at all! The fact that this little publication -publishes some of the most distinctive stories written in America today -does not count, of course. It is not a widely-read magazine; it does -not pay for contributions;--it deserves no attention. - -Plainly, our duty as instructors and moulders of the new generation of -story writers is to base our instruction on the needs and preferences -of the fiction periodicals having the largest circulations and able -to pay well for material used. The inculcation of literary ideals, -the stimulation of original talent and the enriching of our national -letters are all excellent themes for papers to be read before high-brow -clubs and respectable societies, but as practical propositions, in a -practical world, they do not lead anywhere. Any one who joins a class -to take up story-writing as a profession wants to sell--and as quickly -as possible. And the story that sells today the quickest and brings the -fattest check is the story of action. Hence our first rule: “Spend the -sweat of your brow on deeds!” - -It is true that there do creep up some unpleasant contradictions in -our methods. After laying down the law of action we refer students to -Edgar Allan Poe or Robert Louis Stevenson or Maupassant for perfect -short-story models, and they come back to us in a state of perplexity. -They have picked up Poe and some garrulous old critic, in a superfluous -introduction, had pronounced “The Fall of the House of Usher” to be -Poe’s best tale. They have picked up Stevenson, and some equally -old-fashioned pedant had classed “Markheim” as a masterpiece. They -have picked up Maupassant, and, again, some ancient scholar had lifted -“Solitude” to a pre-eminent position. Yet not one of these three -stories is particularly conspicuous for action. Poe seems to have spent -the sweat of his brow in creating an atmosphere of extreme morbidity -(oh, terror-striking word in our optimistic texts!); Stevenson, on -acute character analysis; and the insane Frenchman on some irrelevant -prattlings about solitude and the whys and wherefores of this queer -life of ours. - -Occasionally some student with sufficient courage to voice his -perplexity timidly inquires: “Would any magazine accept such stories -today? There is so little action and still less optimism in them!” I -think of all the stories I have read in recent periodicals that I can -remember and am obliged to admit that few present-day magazines would -be tempted to accept a story of the type on which the masters chose to -lavish their best work. I think this estimate conservative, but soon -the various anthologies of the best short stories that have appeared -in our magazines in the last half dozen years leap into my mind and -protest against my harsh verdict. Some sort of a change really has come -over our fiction recently. Fully twenty-five per cent. of the stories -in Mr. O’Brien’s yearly collection, for instance, are decidedly not -of the “rapid action” type, and more than seventy-five per cent. of -the stories in such an anthology as that compiled by the late William -Dean Howells would not stand the “action” test, although the latter -anthology is not a very exact reflector of modern tendencies since but -few living writers are represented. - -So it becomes necessary to explain the discrepancy between the type -of story we teach our students to produce and the type of story we -refer them to for study purposes. It becomes necessary to emphasize -the fact that such periodicals as “The Little Review,” “Midland,” “The -Pagan” (discontinued), “The Stratford Journal” (temporarily suspended), -“The Wave,” and a few others of the “unpopular” group do not pay for -contributions and that the few “leaders” or “giants” in the group pay -but little, and that, therefore, few “respectable” writers contribute -to them. Of the youngsters that do make their way to the top, once in -a great while, through the medium of these high-brow little magazines -one or two may ever hope to get into the “Big Four” or similar -high-prestiged and well-paying periodicals. So that while it may be -flattering to receive the pale encomiums of a few snobbish critics, -the safest way is to write “real” stories full of red-blooded action -and reap a golden harvest. Let those who do not care for the riches of -a material world be satisfied with the deluge of praise poured upon a -Sherwood Anderson; as for most, Holworthy Hall or Octavus Roy Cohen -seems a more inviting model. - -And if this does not really explain the uncanny discrepancy in our -texts and they still seem somewhat confused and more than a bit -contradictory, we can, as a last resort, have recourse to that eloquent -dictum: Laws should be studied to be broken! And we suddenly acquire -the becoming halo of iconoclasts and have at last a satisfactory -explanation of why our students should read Poe and Maupassant and -Stevenson, yet not model their own work along the best of these -masters; why they should study our anthologies full of such “anemic” -stories as those of Dreiser, Anderson, Cabell, Waldo Frank, Ben Hecht, -Djuna Barnes, and even those of Susan Glaspell and Alice Brown, yet not -write in similar vein but should emulate rather writers whose names -never appear in anthologies. - -Having thus explained the validity of our first rule and having -insisted on strict compliance therewith, we proceed to evolve methods -for a satisfactory meeting of our rule. If action must dominate a -story there should be some system of capturing this indispensable -ingredient, of imprisoning it within our brief literary form, of -whipping it into marketable shape. We find this system and reduce it to -terse understandable terms. We dig down into our bag of story-lore and -lo! we flourish before the weak eyes of the uninitiate another magic -commandment: Complicate! Complicate if you would have Action in your -stories. Complicate if you would have Suspense. Complicate if you would -exchange rejection slips for checks! - -It is true that we are careful to explain our schemes of complication, -lest they be taken too literally. Accompanying our commandments are -various precautionary remarks about Logic and Plausibility and numerous -other qualifying statements. But in the main Action and Complication -are held forth as the two most important principles of sound -story-writing. First of all, then, our students are urged to plot and -complicate so that there be not a tedious moment in their product. Let -every sentence move forward the action. Let new developments, startling -in their unusualness and unexpectedness, crop up all the time. And -don’t forget to keep in reserve the grandest development of all, -the most surprising, for the very end. The Dénouement is the thing! -Charming word--French, you know. - -I remember a young girl who attended my classes but a short time. “My -weakness seems to be a lack of inventiveness,” she confided to me. “My -plots are too quiet.” She handed in a story and I agreed with her. Her -plots were quiet, but it was the quiet of Spoon River and Winesburg -and Gopher Prairie. She knew intimately the little old Southern town -she hailed from, and she had the gift of making me know it. I knew -it in its past and present and future, which was all of one tone and -texture; I knew its proud inhabitants, patrician and plebeian; I felt -its pulse. I told the girl not to attempt to infuse plot into her story -and suggested a number of magazines that might accept it as it was. - -“But I don’t want to write for these small publications!” she objected. -“Nobody has ever heard of them. I want to get into the ‘Saturday -Evening Post,’ the ‘Cosmopolitan,’ and the ‘Red Book.’ And they want -more plot than I manage to put into my stories; that’s what--told me.” -And she named a much advertised commercial critic. - -Evidently I proved incapable of generating within her the coveted -element of inventiveness, for the girl dropped out after an exceedingly -brief stay and I have heard nothing from or of her since. Her name -has not yet appeared in the _Saturday Evening Post_, nor in the -_Cosmopolitan_, nor in the _Red Book_--nor, to my knowledge, in any -other magazine. The eminent critic had done his work very well indeed. -His teachings that _every_ story must have an ingenious plot had -seemingly struck root, and the girl with her plotless little town and -its plotless little lives has probably decided, in utter despair, that -her mind is hopelessly devoid of the one essential for successful -story-writing--inventiveness. - -Of course, she could have been made to stay and persevere a little -longer, and perhaps she might have yet attained her modicum of success. -If to her quiet little story a few entanglement tricks had been -dexterously applied the girl would have been satisfied and probably -also some editor or another of the more remunerative magazines to -which she aspired. The aspect of her sleepy Southern town would have -undergone a strange metamorphosis, and her lethargic hero and heroine -would have been changed into inhabitants of some hectic metropolis, but -that, of course, would have merely proved the magic of sound technique. - -One of the surest of these tricks of ours is the introduction of -a second or third line of interest. Where a story is thin and -uninteresting an entirely different story can be brought in and the -two skillfully connected, related and correlated. Our texts abound -in geometric diagrams of lines and curves and circles, bisected and -intersected, zig-zagging, up and down, rising to various points of -crises and climaxes and catastrophes, and falling again with the -inevitable dénouement. These diagrams look like sacred hieroglyphics -to the credulous student who approaches their cryptic meaning with a -reverent awe. Given a story that reads too “narrative”-like, that lacks -interest because too few crises are arrived at, and its weakness can -usually be traced to its single line of interest which is not thick -enough to generate the necessary amount of suspense. The introduction -of another line brightens it up, adds suspense, complication--Interest. - -The process really is a simple one. The moving pictures employ it, -invariably, with greatest effect. A young man is leading the confident -life of a freshman in some Middle-Western town. The first line is -started. The young man’s environment is pictured, his habits and likes -and dislikes and his towering ambitions. He is a marked man. But here -his line breaks. The continuity writer has become busy introducing an -entirely different line of interest. Beautiful Lady Psyche has left -her shire castle and is sailing for America on the Mammoth liner. The -orchestra is playing, and the Lady is standing on the upper deck, -her delicate white hands grasping the railing. Her eyes are deep and -wistful and hopeful. We know, of course, even at this time, that -she will in some fateful way meet our unsuspecting freshman. It is -only a question of time. Her career and his will become entangled -and merged into one. In the meantime we are watching and waiting. -But at this point the continuity writer again breaks the line and -begins an entirely new one. On the liner is “Taffy” Slim and he is -scheming to rob Lady Psyche of her famous jewels. Now we are watching -Taffy’s career. He succeeds and makes his get-away, but Lady Psyche’s -jewels are known the world over, having been photographed on numerous -occasions for the rotogravure supplements of our Sunday newspapers, -and Taffy finds himself unable to dispose of them. He wanders through -the length and breadth of our land starving, with a fortune’s worth -of jewels in his pocket, until finally, he comes to our Mid-Western -college town and meets our freshman. This clever hero buys the jewels -for a bun and--oh, gallantry of gallantries!--undertakes to return -them to their beautiful heart-broken owner. Now we see how these three -lines have been crossed and recrossed and why! We don’t know yet what -the gallant’s reward will consist of but we hope it will be a proposal -of matrimony; in fact, we are not willing to accept anything less for -our hero. - -In the short story this double-or multiple-line-of-interest method -was employed most successfully by O. Henry and is clung to by most -of his followers. Its skillful manipulation undoubtedly results in a -more marketable product. It insures a thrilling sequence of events, if -not always a logical one. It is one of our most venerated tricks. We -underline it in our texts. We point out its potency in unmistakable -terms. We hold it up as a shining revelation to a gasping novitiate, -and for revelations the timeworn practice is to demand blind, absolute -acceptance. - -One result of our attitude has just been traced in the experience of -the girl with her sleepy little Southern town story. The incompetent -who cannot think in terms of criss-cross lines is eliminated. -Artificiality is not only encouraged but placed at a premium. Sincerity -and that highest of artistic qualities, simplicity, are held up as -baneful stumbling blocks in the way of successful authorship. We -may have read Joseph Hergesheimer but we have never heard of his -philosophic Chwang-Tze whose pithy sentence prefaces “Java Head,” -a sentence full of illuminating words: “It is only the path of pure -simplicity which guards and preserves the spirit.” By undermining the -young story-teller’s faith in the path of pure simplicity we undermine -his spirit; we maim it; often destroy it completely. - -Aside from the effect upon our story writers, this doctrine of constant -action and complication and entanglement has also been one of the -causes that have kept American fiction until very recently almost -entirely in the cheaply Romantic school of the long-forgotten past. It -has become strongly rooted in our readers through a perpetual diet of -fiction that embodies these “vital” ingredients, and consequently also -in our editors who must alertly watch the demand to engage successfully -in its supply. As far as we are concerned it would seem that the great -realists and naturalists have lived and died in vain. We are still -writing largely fairy tales, American in color and setting to be -sure, about bizarre adventures and quixotic adventurers. And in our -institutions of learning we are still preaching that stories must be -full of thrilling incidents and brave dénouements to be interesting and -meritorious. We are still living in the fantastic land of improbable -plots where men bound and rebound according to specific orders of -the author. That “the value of a dramatic action has nothing to do -with novelty of incident or the tingle of physical suspense”; that -“Character, motive and fatality, man and the earth and the gods--such -are the elements of dramatic action,”[3] has, as yet, occurred to few -of us. - -An admission must be made: It is becoming increasingly difficult to -find plot material that hasn’t been worn threadbare by immoderate use. -The South Seas and the Pacific Islands have been pretty well covered. -Alaska and Hudson Bay are no longer inviting. The cow-boy story, -though not yet entirely extinct, is fast becoming so. The crook story, -though still popular with a particular type of magazine and magazine -purchaser, requires a greater measure of ingenuity to be attractive. -Baseball and football heroism is still going strong but the market is -limited. The Country-Boy-who-becomes-a-Wall-Street-magnate story will -probably continue as long as the large business fiction magazines will -retain their million-and-more circulation marks, but it is beginning to -tax the writer’s inventive capacity for brilliant deals for the hero -to get to that crowded narrow thoroughfare below Brooklyn bridge. The -rash-things-that-pretty-girls-do story is just now having its vogue, -but will blow over like a Bill Hart or Douglas Fairbanks fame. The -situation is gloomy indeed, even critical--if we wish to look at it -that way. Many old writers as well as young ones admit it. - -But we don’t. We are optimists. When cornered we say: “Yes, the present -market does have some such aspect, but it simply proves one thing--the -necessity for the greater mastery of technique, for more originality.” -Then we proceed to elucidate. We define originality. It isn’t concerned -with theme but with the handling of theme. There are no new themes -under the sun; never were. A novel twist applied to a threadbare theme -is originality. These twists can be learned--that’s what we, teachers -of technique, are here for: to show how. The secret lies not only in -plenty of action and complication but in the spectacular handling of -these elements. There are many ways of doing it effectively; plot -order, for instance. - -The common fault of the inexpert literary mechanician is that he -usually tells his story in the chronological order. Assuming that his -story presents a series of twenty steps, composed of incidents and -episodes of varying intensity, he presents them all in the order of -time of occurrence, thus obtaining a quiet narrative lacking in either -suspense or “punch.” But it is possible to juggle these steps in -different ways so as to get them to unfold in a most dramatic sequence. -It is possible to reverse this chronological order and begin with -incident number twenty and work back to number one. That is, instead of -narrating the crimes of our picaresque hero, which finally get him into -jail, in the order of commission, we begin with the man already safely -tucked away behind the bars--it is nearly always a man; women get into -jails but rarely in our fiction, except for the heart-rending scene -of meeting their husbands or sweethearts--and then work back to his -crimes and the day when evil was not yet in his heart and he was still -attending the Y. M. C. A. - -We may then use this “logical” method of plot order or we may use a -mixed method or we may use any one of a number of variants of these -methods. We may, for example, begin with step number five and run up -to step number ten, then work in steps one to five and proceed with -step number eleven. Or we may begin with step one, then skip number -two, withholding it as a missing link in the chain for the sole purpose -of intriguing the reader, and spring it after step nineteen. All we -need to know is how to do these jugglings with the greatest possible -skill--and this is where originality comes to the fore: in the play of -craftsmanship. - -This jugglery we can teach with an absolutely clear conscience. We can -cite any number of great masters who have at various times employed -these several schemes of plot development. Maupassant and Kipling and -Stevenson and Poe and O. Henry and even the quiet Chekhov have all -placed their stamp of approval upon these methods by employing them in -their own celebrated little masterpieces. There is really no necessity -to question whether they came upon these methods consciously or -intuitively, from within or without. This would raise the uncomfortable -problem of synthetic and analytic processes, which would merely -confuse the student and lead nowhere. There may be a distinction -between incidents marshalling themselves in some inevitable sequence -of which the author may not even be aware and incidents juggled about -artificially by a writer who has had it impressed upon him that method -A is more dramatic than method B. There may be a distinction; but for -our purposes it is best not to consider it. Suffice us merely to point -out that our story-construction lore is justified by the masters. The -deductions are simple enough: Learn the tricks of the masters and be a -master yourself. - -I said we can teach plot legerdemain with a clear conscience. As for -me, however, I have often shuddered to think what a zealous graduate -might have done to such a story as Conrad’s “Youth.” In his or her deft -hand it certainly would not have remained a mere “Narrative,” told in -the colorless chronological order; it would have become a finished -short-story. Assuredly finished. - -And yet it must be admitted that a skillful manipulation of our -tricks is, after all, not so easily acquired. There is a brain and a -temperament which is especially adaptable to them, but to the majority -they remain an occult science forever beyond their ken. These unhappy -toilers cannot apply them to their labors. For most students are unable -to construct the slightest kind of plot. There’s a certain knack that -must be acquired. The young, inexperienced mind must be disciplined -along certain grooves. Most students seem to be unable to concentrate -unless driven to do so. I experiment with my class. Unexpectedly I -announce a theme and request the class to construct an incident. Like -children bent upon solving a puzzle, they go to work and I am left to -examine the result. Fully fifty per cent. have used the same situation -and dénouement, as if by agreement; forty-nine per cent. have striven -to inject a novel twist or “O. Henryism” at the end. But the one per -cent! Why here is but a thin bit of paper, with just a few lines -scribbled on it. If this is an incident, it is a very short incident, -indeed. It reads: “I have never been able to write under pressure. I -must find myself in a proper mood. I suppose I shall never make a story -writer.” I smile. I have a vivid picture of young Tommy Sandys losing -his scholarship because one elusive word had refused to respond to his -bidding. - - - - -CHAPTER III - -“O. HENRYISM” - - -The mottoes of most of our fiction periodicals are told on their -covers: “A magazine of clever fiction,” “A magazine of bright fiction,” -“A magazine of entertaining fiction,” “A magazine of frisky fiction.” -But with all the available supply of novel plot material exhausted by -writers who had the good fortune of being here before our generation -had an opportunity, what is left to us is neither clever, bright, nor -entertaining. However, O. Henry proved that it was possible to take -the same age-old material and brighten it up with a coat of sparkling -cleverness. He had but to juggle his incidents in such a way as to make -them follow one another in a most spectacular sequence. He had but to -play upon the credulity of his reader. Like the stage magician, he said -to his audience: “Observe that there is a tree here and a fountain -there, and without moving a finger I shall reverse their positions. Now -watch, presto! Here they are!” And the audience applauded, wondering -how he did it, and crowned him king of the wizards. - -The king of the wizards, then, occupies a most honorable position -in our textbooks. Stories written in the vein of O. Henry sell more -readily than stories written in the vein of any other master. There is -a brightness, a snappiness, a cheerfulness of style about them that -draws the artistic sensibilities of editors. And yet our insistence -upon the emulation of O. Henry has not produced many other O. Henrys. -Perhaps it is because O. Henry went to the highways and byways of North -and Central America for his plot material which he then juggled to -his heart’s content, while our students go to O. Henry for their plot -material. Perhaps also it is because O. Henryism was as much a part of -William Sidney Porter as was his speaking voice which is buried with -him. - -A very young student once lodged a complaint against her own unruly -self. “It is absolutely impossible for me to write a single sentence -in the O. Henry way,” she said. “My stuff somehow doesn’t have that -swing--it’s dead. I don’t believe I shall ever learn. I am too sad of -disposition, I suppose.” - -That was one time I did not smile. “Why should you want to write like -O. Henry?” I asked. “Why don’t you try to wear the shape of shoes -or the color of clothes he wore, or drink the kind of ginger-ale he -preferred?” But I was sorry later for my unguarded outburst, for I -realize that that was not the way to make story writers, not the kind -that sell, at any rate. - -After all, O. Henry’s technique consisted mainly of a series of clever -tricks, and tricks can be taught, even though not perhaps his dexterity -in performing them. His was truly a gift of the Magi and not really a -gift of the gods. Admitting that through his superficial cleverness -there occasionally glimmers an uncommon understanding of and a sympathy -for the people whose destinies he juggles, the fact remains that his -example is that of clever execution rather than artistic conception. -It remains needless, then, for us to point to anything else in his -makeup save his successful technique. We read a dozen of his stories, -call attention to their brilliant mannerisms and surprising twists at -the end, and exhort our students to go and do likewise. Sometimes we -go a little further and discuss the underlying psychology upon which -O. Henry based his loops and twists--his belief that our modern reader -was so well-nourished on stereotyped fiction as to guess the conclusion -of a story by its beginning, and, consequently, O. Henry led him on to -believe that his guess was being borne out until the very end, when a -pleasantly startling disappointment was sprung upon him. - -To substantiate our eulogies of the wizard and to impress upon the -would-be writer the importance of studying and emulating O. Henry, we -quote copiously from Stephen Leacock, Prof. C. Alphonso Smith, and -numerous other O. Henry friends. We seldom, if ever, quote opinions of -critics and editors who are hostile to O. Henry and his cult. Here is -one editor, for instance, who actually believes that “the effects of -such mannerism, trickery, shallowness, and artifice as distinguished O. -Henry’s work, are baleful on all literary students who do not despise -them.”[4] We know that this editor’s opinion must not be credited with -importance. His is only a small Greenwich Village publication. The -checks that writers receive come from editors who do like O. Henry’s -ways; in fact, prefer O. Henryesque stories almost to the exclusion -of any other type. Hence we examine the work of our students with -a feeling of satisfaction. By far the greater number have imbibed -our teachings. Their work shows a striving after cleverness, witty -flippancy, grotesque slang, and an attempt to cap the dénouement with a -novel twist, a perfectly surprising turn. Thus we know that our work is -not in vain; at least some of our students are on the way to success. - -Again, this is not a plea on behalf of those incompetents who are not -O. Henryesquely gifted and are therefore not on the way to success. It -is merely a dispassionate consideration of the profession of teaching -story-writing and its existing standards and ethics. Since the O. Henry -story is held up as the supreme model, it is only fair to inquire -into the results thus produced. We have been so eloquent with pride -on the progress of our short story. Since Professor Brander Matthews -first expounded its philosophy, away back in 1884, and connected the -two little words by a hyphen to distinguish this form beginning with -an Initial Impulse and running up to a Climax and falling down to a -Dénouement from the story which is merely short, it has become our -prevailing form of literature. The quantity turned out annually is -beyond the dreams of such a pioneer as Poe. But the quality--ah, that -is another story! - -What proportion of this wholesale output can be candidly, suppressing -for the moment our desire to experience flattering sensations, added to -our national literary treasury? How many memorable stories come to mind -to waylay us with their poignant spell of subtlety and beauty--such, -let us say, as Kipling’s “Without Benefit of Clergy,” or Chekhov’s -“Ward No. 6,” or Maupassant’s “In the Moonlight”? Few, isn’t it? And -peculiar, is it not, that though we have been heaping the warmest -of praise upon Richard Harding Davis and Clarence Budington Kelland -and George Randolph Chester and Richard Washburn Child and Mary -Roberts Rinehart and a score or more of our other popular writers, -the few memorable stories that do come to mind were not written by -these favorites. How much of the O. Henryesque is to be found in Mary -E. Wilkins Freeman’s “Revolt of Mother,” or in Theodore Dreiser’s -“The Lost Phoebe,”[5] or, to take a more recent example, in Anzia -Yezierska’s “Hungry Hearts”?[6] These stories are everything that -the wizard’s stories are not. They are neither breezy, nor flippant, -nor surprising; nor “refreshing.” Judged by our standards they are -anomalies. - -I am sufficiently steeped in our inspirational literature to be aware -of the dangers of pessimism. The Doctors Crane and Orison Swett Marden -and Walt Mason have left their effect upon my disposition. But it is -only logical to deduct that if all the O. Henry standards that we -have so triumphantly established and extolled for the guidance of our -story writers have failed to produce a single great story to compare -with the best that other countries which do not preach and practice O. -Henryism have produced, there is something wrong with our standards. -These are unusual times we are living in. Everything that has seemed to -us wise and sound and sublime is coming in for a share of skepticism -and revaluation. Unquestionable things are being questioned. Is it not -a propitious time to attempt a revaluation of our short-story dogmas? -What is the contribution of O. Henryism to our national letters and to -the short story as a form of literary expression? How great an artist -really was William Sidney Porter, the founder of the Cult? Is it -sacrilege to attempt to answer these questions? - -O. Henry left us more than two hundred and fifty stories. In the -decade before his death he turned out an average of twenty-five -stories a year. Mr. William Johnston, an editor of the New York -_World_ relates[7] the struggles of O. Henry in trying to live up to a -three-year contract he had with that paper calling for a story a week. -There were weeks when O. Henry would haunt the hotels and cafés of New -York in a frantic search of material, and there were times when the -stories could not be produced on time and O. Henry would sit down and -write the most ingenious excuses. Needless to state that O. Henry’s -stories bear all the marks of this haste and anxiety. Nearly all of -them are sketchy, reportorial, superficial, his gift of felicitous -expression “camouflaging” the poverty of theme and character. The best -of them lack depth and roundness, often disclosing a glint of a sharp -idea unworked, untransmuted by thought and emotion. - -Of his many volumes of stories, “The Four Million” is without doubt -the one which is most widely known. It was his bold challenge to the -world that he was the discoverer--even though he gave the census -taker due credit--of four million people instead of four hundred in -America’s metropolis that first attracted attention and admiration. -The implication was that he was imbued with the purpose of unbaring -the lives of these four million and especially of the neglected lower -classes. A truly admirable and ambitious self-assignment. And so we -have “The Four Million.” But to what extent was he successful in -carrying out his assignment. How much of the surging, shifting, pale, -rich, orderly, chaotic, and wholly incongruous life of New York is -actually pulsating in the twenty-five little stories collected in the -volume? - -What is the first one, “Tobin’s Palm,” if not a mere long-drawn-out -jest? Is it anything more than an anecdote exploiting palmistry as a -“trait”--to use another technical term--or point? It isn’t New York, -nor Tobin, nor any other character, that makes this story interesting. -It is O. Henry’s trick at the end. The prophecy is fulfilled, after -all, in such an unexpected way, and we are such satisfied children! - -What is the second story, the famous “Gift of the Magi”? We have -discussed it and analyzed it in our texts and lauded it everywhere. -How much of the life of the four million does it hold up to us? It -is better than the first story; yes, much better. But why is it a -masterpiece? Not because it tries to take us into the home of a married -couple attempting to exist in our largest city on the husband’s income -of $20 per week. No, that wouldn’t make it famous. Much better stories -of poverty have been written, much more faithful and poignant, and -the great appreciative public does not even remember them. It is the -wizard’s mechanics, his stunning invention--that’s the thing! Della -sells her hair and buys a fob for hubby’s watch; while at the same time -hubby sells his watch and buys her a comb. But you don’t know all this -until they get together for the presentation of the gifts, and then -you gasp. We call this working criss-cross, a plot of cross purposes. -In this story we usually overlook entirely one little thing--the last -paragraph. It really is superfluous and therefore constitutes a breech -of technique. We preach against preaching. Tell your story, we say, and -stop. “Story” is synonymous with _action_. O. Henry didn’t stop--so -that even he was sometimes a breaker of laws. But this uncomfortable -thought doesn’t really have to be noted! - -“A Cosmopolite in a Café” is a little skit proving that “since Adam no -true citizen of the world has existed.” It is the type of writing that -is termed “short story” by our humorous weeklies. - -“Between Rounds” is the first story in the volume that really displays -O. Henry’s gift of mature satire. Here underneath his superficial -jesting lurks reality. The pathos in the lives of the McCaskeys and -the Murphys is touched upon, lightly to be sure, but sufficiently to -indicate that O. Henry saw it. - -The plotted happy ending with plenty of “punch” is best exemplified by -“The Skylight Room.” The gullible reader must have really thought that -Billy Jackson was little Miss Leeson’s name of some star. But not so, -ha-ha! It really was the name of the ambulance doctor who came to take -her to the hospital. “Fishy,” you say? Not any more than “A Service of -Love.” Not that the young couple in this latter story might not have -both worked and concealed the fact from each other. But why both in a -laundry and in the same laundry? Coincidence of course! Incidentally, -can you recognize the “Gift of the Magi” here? Shakespeare may have -never repeated, but O. Henry did, very frequently too. Here we have -again the poor loving couple trying to get along on next to nothing a -week. A slightly different twist but the formula is the same. Even the -names of the principals are almost the same. In “The Gift of the Magi” -we had Della and Jim, in “A Service of Love” we have Delia and Joe. - -In “The Coming-out of Maggie” O. Henry again brushes real life and real -romance. In the hands of a sincere artist this material could have been -worked into an immortal story. As a matter of fact, the same basic -theme--the heart-hunger of a neglected girl--has been treated by Gorki -in his “Her Lover.”[8] And the difference between the two stories is -the difference between tinsel and diamond. - -“Man About Town,” “The Cop and the Anthem” and “An Adjustment of -Nature” are trivial things--expanded anecdotes at best. “Memories of -a Yellow Dog” presents O. Henry at his happiest. It is a fine bit of -satire--a field in which lay his strength. In “The Love-Philtre of -Ikey Schoenstein” the wizard again displays his bag of theatrical -tricks. And so he does in “Mammon and the Archer,” with its needless -anti-climax--again breaking the law: “Thou shalt stop when through.” -“Springtime à la Carte” is a long-drawn-out joke. So is “From a Cabby’s -Seat.” In “The Green Room” O. Henry once more had a cursory glimpse of -his “four million.” - -Now we reach “An Unfinished Story.” Thanks to the good imps that may -have influenced him to leave this story unfinished. It is the only one -in the volume that shows O. Henry was capable of genuine emotion and -had a sense of artistic truth. Dr. Blanche Colton Williams would not -include it among O. Henry’s best because “It is just what the author -called it--unfinished.”[9] Yes, admittedly, it is unfinished--in a -technical sense. The $5 a week shop-girl has nothing to wear and does -not go to the dance with Piggy. And that’s all that happens, except a -little sermon at the end in which O. Henry intimates that the fellow -that sets fire to an orphan asylum, and murders a blind man for -his pennies, has a cleaner conscience than the prosperous-looking -gentleman who hires working girls and pays them five or six dollars a -week to live on in the city of New York. To “finish” this story would -have necessitated the distortion of truth, the blurring of the drab -little picture. That Sidney Porter refused to do it indicates to what -extent he was above the practical standards of his admiring disciples -and interpreters. - -“The Caliph, Cupid and The Clock” is a bit of romantic clap-trap. So is -“Sisters of the Golden Circle.” “The Romance of a Busy Broker” is the -old absent-minded-professor-who-forgot-he-was-married joke belabored to -the dignity of a story. - -“After Twenty Years” is another bit of writing that has been burdened -with unqualified encomiums by the O. Henry clergy. The ingenuity of -the plot and the strong “kick” at the end fill them with a halleluiah -ecstacy. An empty little crook story, sketchy, anecdotal, is hailed as -a masterpiece. - -In “Lost on Dress Parade” you can again recognize the same old formula -underlying the construction of “The Gift of the Magi” and “A Service -of Love.” Another example of criss-cross plotting. “By Courier” is a -typical syndicate story. The woman the doctor had held in his arms -was only a patient who had fainted. It was all a mistake. The Best -Girl forgives and forgets. Nevertheless it represents an improvement -over the old type of similar story. The fair suspect was after all a -patient and not the hero’s sister. - -“The Furnished Room” is another indication that O. Henry was capable of -feeling the pulse of his four million when he was so attuned, and “The -Brief Debút of Tilly,” though in smaller measure, corroborates it. - -Thus an examination of O. Henry’s work by any one not blinded by -hero-worship and popular esteem, discloses at best an occasional brave -peep at life, hasty, superficial and dazzlingly flippant; an idea, raw, -unassimilated, timidly works its way to the surface only to be promptly -suppressed by a hand skilled in producing sensational effects. At its -worst, his work is no more than a series of cheap jokes renovated and -expanded. But over all there is the unmistakable charm of a master -trickster, of a facile player with incidents and words. - -That William Sidney Porter was himself greatly displeased with his -accomplishment, that he even held it in contempt is attested by his -prevailing cynical tone. He knew he was not creating art, that he was -not giving the best there was in him. There was not time for that and -editors did not want it, and with a bitterness that Mark Twain and -Jack London shared to their dying day he continued to perform tricks. -Mr. William Johnston in his article in the _Bookman_, referred to -above, states that after reading one of his, Mr. Johnston’s, stories, -in some obscure Southern periodical, O. Henry wrote to him: “I wish -_I’d_ written that story.” The story was probably not remarkable in -any particular way. Mr. Johnston is not known as a great story writer. -But O. Henry must have felt that it was written sincerely and his own -artifice weighed upon him. - -This is the lesson that an honest teaching profession with any critical -vision at all, undertaking to mold a generation of fiction writers, -ought to point out. Instead of worshipping him blindly, calling him the -“American Maupassant,” and quoting from his biographies painstaking -proof that he was innocent of the crime of embezzlement for which -he served a prison sentence, we might at least mention the danger -of following his methods too slavishly. The puritanic impulse which -inhibits any praise of a man’s work unless it can first establish his -“sterling” character is excruciatingly laughable if not downright -pathetic. Thus attempts have been made by meticulous biographers -to establish the fact that Edgar Allan Poe never tasted any sinful -beverage. And only then, having vindicated his character, does the -conscience of these brave biographers permit them to accept Poe as a -great writer and the pride of America. Whether O. Henry was guilty or -not does not change his standing as a story writer, nor his influence -on other writers, and it is only as such that the student and critic is -interested in him. - -In our attitude toward O. Henry and O. Henryism lies one explanation -of the prevailing mediocrity of the contemporary American short story. -The conventional editor, teacher, student, and reader look upon the -short story as upon some interesting puzzle, the key to which is -cleverly concealed until the befuddled reader is ready to “give up.” -Our would-be writers seeking guidance from my profession are never -disabused of this conception but deliberately encouraged to retain it. -We overwhelm them with our analyses of the work of the Master, with our -glowing tributes to his art and charm and genius, his purity of thought -and his philosophy. An article on O. Henry, containing essentially the -same material presented in this chapter, was rejected by a magazine -circulating among young writers for the reason that “the editor does -not hold your views with regard to O. Henry’s contribution to the -American short story. He _is_ our supreme short-story master....” In -not a single textbook on story-writing, of the many that have come -to my attention, have I found such a simple estimate of O. Henry as -this: “His weakness lay in the very nature of his art. He was an -entertainer bent only on amusing and surprising his reader. Everywhere -brilliancy, but too often it is joined to cheapness; art, yet art -merging swiftly into caricature. Like Harte, he cannot be trusted. -Both writers on the whole may be said to have lowered the standards -of American literature, since both worked in the surface of life -with theatric intent.... O. Henry moves, but he never lifts. All is -fortissimo; he slaps the reader on the back and laughs loudly as if he -were in a bar-room. His characters, with few exceptions, are extremes, -caricatures. Even his shop girls, in the limning of whom he did his -best work, are not really individuals; rather are they types, symbols. -His work was literary vaudeville, brilliant, highly amusing, and yet -vaudeville.”[10] - -This estimate, coming as it does from a standard source, cannot be -discounted by attributing it to radical or ultra-advanced tendencies. -The fact is that the case of O. Henry is so simple that even standard -critics and historians, if they but choose to be open-minded, can -see through it. When in 1916 Mrs. Katharine Fullerton Gerould in an -interview with the late Joyce Kilmer called O. Henry “a pernicious -literary influence,” even the New York _Times_, though hastening to the -defense of the wizard, admitted that there might be something in this -outburst of depreciation of O. Henryism. “I hear that O. Henry is held -up as a model by critics and professors of English,” said Mrs. Gerould. -“The effect of this must be pernicious. It cannot but be pernicious -to spread the idea that he is a master of the short story.” And the -_Times_, in an editorial, although taking issue with Mrs. Gerould, was -obliged to conclude: - -“Maybe some day we shall get away from writing with a set of rules -before us, and then we shall have literature instead of best sellers. -Maybe the trouble with our writing is that we have developed technique -to such a point that Tom, Dick and Harry are masters of technique and -anybody who can get the hang of it can write a publishable story. Maybe -our fiction has been whetted to a razor edge, until it is technique and -nothing else. Maybe the story has been perfected until now we can tell -perfectly a story that is not worth telling, but have not even thought -of learning what stories are worth telling. Maybe, if we did that, -and told them without thinking of technique and without knowing that -there were any rules whatever, we might write stories that would be -remembered, say, ten years hence. Maybe there is, after all, only one -rule for telling a story--to have one worth telling and then to tell it -as well as you can. Maybe that is what is the matter with the American -drama as well as with American fiction. If we could unlearn some of the -rules and forget technique we might not produce best sellers; and maybe -if we told, as clumsily as our ignorance of the rules compelled us, -stories that were worth telling, there might be no more best sellers, -only stories that would live as long as the clumsy plots of Dickens -and the inartistic anecdotes of O. Henry.” - -Just how long O. Henry’s stories will live and his influence -predominate is a prediction no one can safely undertake to venture -at this time. It depends upon how long we will permit his influence -to predominate. The great mass of our reading public will continue -to venerate any writer as long as our official censors continue to -write panegyrics of him, and our colleges to hold him up as a model. -The literary aspirants coming to us for instruction are recruited -largely from among this indiscriminating public. Sooner or later, -however, we must realize that the American Maupassant has not yet come -and that those who foisted the misnomer upon William Sidney Porter -have done the American short story a great injury. Before this most -popular of our literary forms can come into its own the O. Henry cult -must be demolished. O. Henry himself must be assigned his rightful -position--among the tragic figures of America’s potential artists whose -genius was distorted and stifled by our prevailing commercial and -infantile conception of literary values. Our short story itself must be -cleansed; its paint and powder removed; its fluffy curls shorn--so that -our complacent reader may be left to contemplate its “rag and a bone -and a hank of hair.” - -When the great American short-story master finally does come, no titles -borrowed from the French or any other nationality will be necessary -and adequate. His own worth will forge his crown, and his worth will -not be measured in tricks and stunts and puzzles and cleverness. His -sole object will not be to spring effects upon his unwary reader. -His will be sincere honest art--with due apologies for this obvious -contradiction in terms, for art can be nothing but sincere!--a result -of deep, genuine emotions and an overflowing imagination. His very soul -will be imbued with the simple truth, so succinctly put by Mr. H. L. -Mencken, that “the way to sure and tremendous effects is by the route -of simplicity, naturalness, ingenuousness.”[11] - - - - -CHAPTER IV - -THE MOVING PICTURES - - -An assignment once given my class called for a story based on this -simple germ: “A servant kills his master.” To my great astonishment I -found that fully seventy-five per cent. of the class had decided, as if -by agreement, that the servant must be either a Japanese or a Chinaman. -Why? The students themselves could not explain it, but I could. I had -observed this unison of plot conception many times before. They had all -drawn their inspiration from the same inexhaustible source--the moving -pictures. In all probability not a single student had ever employed -or seen his or her friends employ a Japanese or Chinese servant. If -they had ever employed a servant at all, it was most likely some -negro girl, and yet their fancy had taken them to the Asiatics. For -every one has surely noticed that in the moving pictures the lowly -individual who carries the master’s suitcase is always an Asiatic -valet. It is fashionable and ethical. The laborer, the servant, is -nearly always a foreigner, the American is the “boss,” the domineering -chap who wears the full-dress suit and faces the camera with a -compelling, clean-shaven chin. The drowsy members of our A. F. of L. -and the weak-eyed bookkeepers and typists filling the galleries of our -motion-picture houses must feel highly flattered as they applaud the -shadows of their dreams projected on the screen. What has plausibility -to do with the “Eighth Art”? And who is naïve enough to expect to find -it there? - -Yet to the student of the modern American short story, and novel -as well, the moving pictures must come in for a great share of -consideration. This institution exerts a tremendous influence on the -trend of our fiction, determining both its form and substance. It is no -longer a secret that most of our prominent fiction-writers who still -are unattached to some studio are writing stories for the magazines -with a view to their ultimate adaptation for the screen. A number of -magazine publishers maintain brokerage departments where the stories -appearing in their publications are sold to film manufacturers and the -profits thus realized divided with the authors or quietly deposited to -their own accounts. The editors of these magazines are instructed to -keep an eye on moving-picture possibilities of manuscripts submitted -to them. The remuneration involved is so alluring that even the best -writers with high literary traditions behind them are fast succumbing. -But whereas these old writers for the most part have already done -their best work and have spent themselves, so that their loss to -American letters is not very serious, the effect of the moving-pictures -urge upon the young author is truly disastrous. - -To write for the screen as it is at present managed requires neither -art nor knowledge. Writers with any literary compunctions cannot hope -to succeed in a field which demands a complete distortion of all -values. What is required is the ability to supply some acrobatically -inclined matinée idols and curly-haired ingénues with fast-moving -vehicles to display their “stunts.” It presupposes an intimate -acquaintance with the peculiar talents of each star. If a star can -swim and dive and ride horse-back and jump off a running train and -dance gracefully opportunities must be provided in the scenario for the -parading of these talents. If another can wear pretty clothes daintily -or has pretty dimples on her knees or looks particularly charming -in the uniform of a maid or a governess the scenario writer must be -governed accordingly in constructing his story. It is precisely because -no one outside of a studio can have such an intimate knowledge of the -abilities of the various stars featured by a producing company that -staffs are employed to rewrite and prepare for production every script -purchased from an outsider. - -The moving-picture industry is almost entirely dominated by investors -who are as far from literature as the average would-be story writer is -from being featured in the pages of the _Cosmopolitan_. Their concern -is solely with the box-office. They will purvey anything that will -yield the desired dividends. Manifestly to apply the word “art” to an -industry with such mercenaries at its helm is to cover the word with -mud, unless we stretch the term to include the art of making money. As -Channing Pollock, in a “Plain Talk About the Movies,”[12] once said: -“One of the troubles with the regular theatre is its conviction that -the possession of a hundred thousand dollars turns a laundryman into a -littérateur.” The remark is still more pungently apposite to the cinema -theatre. The ignorance of the rich investors controlling the destinies -of the moving-picture industry is truly stupendous. An anecdote current -among scenario editors and vouched for by one of them as an actual -happening throws a pitiless light on this prevailing trait. When -several years ago the craze of adapting Dickens’ novels for the screen -was on, the president of a large film corporation one day stormed into -his scenario editor’s office and demanded to know why Dickens’ work had -been permitted to go to a rival company. The editor defended himself -by saying that some of Dickens’ work could still be got. “See to it, -then,” the great man ordered. “Wire Mr. Dickens that hereafter we want -his entire output!” - -And these intellectual giants are influencing the output of our -Dickenses! The singularly few exceptions in the industry are powerless -to change the state of affairs. They are either smothered by the -great ones or are tolerated because they are so insignificant. And -these great ones have decreed that adaptations of stage successes, -old classics, best sellers, and magazine stories are more desirable -wares than original stories written especially for the screen. The -governing factor, of course, is the previous advertising that these -adapted stories have had without cost to the film producers. Story -values are the least consideration. Our public is so amusement-hungry -and so well-trained that it will consume anything. Besides, the star is -ninety per cent. of the show anyhow--people go to see the celebrated -So-and-so rather than the vehicle in which So-and-so appears--otherwise -the magnates would not pay five hundred dollars for a story and fifty -thousand dollars for a star’s performance in it. - -The fact, however, that moving-picture producers are not purchasing -original scenarios does not deter the numerous literary schools of the -country from offering instruction in photoplay writing. The advertising -matter of these schools is as optimistic as ever. “Makes $50,000 a -year by writing for the screen,” reads one headline. “Moving-picture -stories in demand everywhere!” reads another. Then the information is -generously volunteered that a certain scenario writer in a California -studio is earning fifty thousand dollars a year; another twenty-five -thousand; and countless others between five and ten thousand. -Convincing proof is presented that no education or previous experience -is necessary; that one farmer in the backwoods of Washington or Oregon -or on the prairies of Illinois has sold a scenario for eighteen hundred -and fifty dollars; that one woman who was never graduated from a public -school has written a masterpiece in her spare time between cooking her -victuals and tending to her seven children and an invalid husband, and -that as a result of her exploit she has now paid off the mortgage on -her house and is experimenting with the mechanism of a Dodge car. - -This alluring prospect of becoming affluent via a course in photoplay -writing is held out not only by the average correspondence school but -also by not a few of our dignified institutions of learning. There is -no excuse for offering any instruction in an art that is on such a low -plane of development, except, perhaps, that of elevating it, which is -not an aim avowed by any of these institutions; and, besides, mere -honesty alone ought to compel even the most enterprising trustee or -administrator to reach the simple conclusion that since the demand -for original photoplays is practically non-existent, as far as the -novice is concerned, it is useless to manufacture photoplaywrights. The -refusal to accept such a logical conclusion results in disappointments -and heartaches and the upsetting of normal useful careers. A glimpse -at the record of original scenarios purchased by some of our leading -producers even as far back as 1918, when the policy of using -adaptations only was not yet rigidly adhered to, proves conclusively -the extent of the market. The American Film Company purchased only -fifteen scenarios during the entire year. The National Studios--twelve. -William S. Hart--eight. The Fairbanks Studio--six. The Dorothy Gish -Company--four. Mary Pickford--one. The Chaplin Studio--one.[13] - -When it is considered that some of our ablest fictionists and -dramatists have been writing photoplays and that some of these accepted -scenarios were written for particular stars and often sent direct to -them or to their directors, the chances of the obscure novice, even the -most meritorious one, are far from glorious indeed. And since 1918 the -policy of adaptations only has been enforced more stringently--almost -to the complete exclusion of the original script submitted by the -outsider. A few producing companies have frankly admitted, in the -various writers’ magazines, that they do not even read manuscripts -submitted by unknown outsiders. - -But while the great mass of aspirants may not be aware of the true -state of conditions our more or less successful writers know it full -well. The Authors’ League and the Pen Women’s League and the various -Writers’ Clubs throughout the country have all discussed and analyzed -the moving-pictures market, and their members are taking means to meet -its eccentric exactions. Why write a story in photoplay continuity or -even detailed synopsis form only to have it returned from the Coast -most likely unread, when the same material can be written up in a -short story or a novelette, its serial rights sold to a magazine and -its photoplay rights reserved and offered to a film company which is -then sure to accord it a friendly reading? As a matter of record the -price paid for photoplay rights to a magazine story is usually twice -and sometimes tenfold the price paid for an original story written -especially for the screen. Part of this extra compensation is probably -for the advertising value of the story, and part for the judgment of -the magazine editor which the film magnates are more inclined to accept -than that of their own hired editors. - -That fiction writers are taking advantage of this unusual opportunity -to sell their work twice is an absolute certainty. “In fact, as several -writers remarked at the Writers’ Club dinner, a large percentage of -the present-day magazine stories are written--planned and plotted--with -the screen directly in mind.... It is well known, on the inside of -the game, that successful fictionists plan every situation and bit of -dialogue in certain stories, visualizing, as they write, the way those -situations will, as they hope, work out on the screen.”[14] And again: -“Today, among the more successful writers of action-stories for the -magazines, there exists the feeling that it is a criminal waste of -time to write originals for the screen. Their method is deliberately -to plan their fiction ... so that it will actually contain abundant -photoplay material, while yet being properly balanced up with the -necessary word-painting and dialogue which good fiction demands. In -other words, they systematically plan their fiction to make its picture -possibilities ‘hit the producer in the eye’ the first time he--or his -scenario editor--reads it.... Almost nine-tenths of the pictures shown -today are adaptations of successful fiction stories or stage plays. If -you doubt that, watch the productions in your theatres and note their -origin.”[15] - -What this “systematic planning” results in is self-evident. The -moving-picture story and the fiction story are two different products. -Their technique is different. The photoplay is pantomime pure and -simple. Ideas and emotions can only be expressed by means of gestures -and facial contortions, with the aid of a schoolboy subtitle flashed -on the screen. Literary style, psychologic delineation, and nice -subtleties of thought and emotion cannot be transmitted. The plot must -unfold rapidly and teem with surprising and tense situations. The -actors must have something _to do_ every second. To write a fiction -story with photoplay possibilities requires a careful selection of -theme and plot. Unlike the magazines, which run in types, each catering -to a particular group of temperamental and intellectual stratum of -our people, the moving pictures depend for success upon the approval -of the Ladies’ Auxiliary Society and the Chew Tobacco Club of Dead -Hollow as well as upon Greenwich Village and the bourgeois Philistines -of our metropolises. No theme must be used that might give offense to -any of these patrons; all must be kept satisfied so that a continuance -of their patronage may be insured. It is also apparent that the pale, -quiet story which does not depend upon action for its “punch” must be -entirely sacrificed, since it cannot possibly have any moving-picture -adaptability. Only the swift-moving, red-blooded plot can be utilized. - -Needless to suggest that our story writers are well aware of these -limitations. The fact that their work is adapted almost wholesale into -photoplays speaks eloquently for their knowledge on this score. -Needless to suggest, also, that they have become expert mechanics in -the way of constructing a fiction story so that it will be certain -to “hit the producer in the eye.” They have learned that “the -photoplaywright depends upon his ability to _think_ and _write_ in -action.”[16] And they have learned to think and write in action. They -have also taken to heart the dictum regarding theme. “In selecting -your theme, ask yourself if either dialogue or description may not be -really required to bring out the theme satisfactorily. If such is the -case, abandon the theme. The few inserts permitted cannot be relied -upon to give much aid--the chief reliance _must_ be pantomime.”[17] It -is only natural, then, for our writers to eschew the unadaptable theme -altogether. - -That the bulk of our magazine fiction is, therefore, not magazine -fiction at all, but merely disguised moving-picture stories is a fact -that has found entirely too little general publicity. A moving-picture -story differs from a fiction story not only in matter of technique -and theme barred by limitations of technique but also in many other -respects. As we have seen, because of the general appeal of the moving -pictures certain themes that might offend any part of the great -public must be avoided. Obviously this results in the humiliating -condition of degenerating to the standard of the lowest patron, of -courting his approval as the final goal of successful authorship. But -should, perchance, an author with a virile conscience bolt the ranks -of the meek conformists and yet, by dint of extraordinarily fortunate -circumstances, break through with his product, the power of the various -Boards of Censorship must be reckoned with. - -There are, of course, official, semi-official and unofficial censors -presiding over the production of our magazine fiction, too. But while -a revolting author may take his work to some less respectable magazine -and thus save his soul, no such outlet exists for the photoplaywright. -His work must be so harmless that it will pass not only the National -Board of Censorship but also the various State and city boards, -otherwise no enterprising producer will risk his money producing it. -The experienced photoplaywright, then, studies the proscriptions of -the various boards and keeps himself informed of all their decisions. -He knows, for instance, that crime must be treated cautiously, and it -must always be punished in the end; that the National Board will not -pass a picture in which there is a suicide, that burglary may be shown, -but not by what means it is committed; that flirtations with women of -easy virtue are banned; that lynching scenes are permissible only when -the picture is laid in places where no other law exists; that scenes -showing kidnapping do not always “get by”; that elopements must be -handled delicately; that, in short, the effect of the picture on the -young, the evil-minded, and the weak-minded must always be carefully -gaged. - -The experienced photoplaywright also knows of all important precedents -established by the censors. He knows that Shakespeare’s plays have -not gotten by unscathed; that “Macbeth” was deemed too full of crime -and “Romeo and Juliet” too full of love; that a kiss between the two -youngsters in the latter play was limited to three feet; that Eugene -Walter’s “Easiest Way” could not be exhibited in the sovereign State of -Pennsylvania because the Board of Censors of that State had condemned -it “in accordance with Section 6 of the Act.... Because it deals -with prostitution”; that in O. Henry’s “Past One at Rooney’s” such -sub-titles as “At one end was a human pianola with drugged eyes,” and -“I know how bad it looked--me smokin’ and comin’ in here. But I’ll -promise you, Eddie--I’ll give up cigarettes and stay home every night -if you want me to” were deleted; etc., etc. And above all he knows that -religious and political views must never be expressed. Furthermore, -that if he breaks the last law and does essay to express any views at -all, they must be the worn-out popular views that even the humblest -deacon or the mistress of the little red schoolhouse back home might be -gladdened with, because they have been cherishing them as an heritage -from their ancient forbears. - -Thus the influence of the moving pictures on the bulk of our magazine -and even book fiction. It is a moving-picture fiction, “strong,” -fast-moving, startling, full of cheap ideas and a gushy hackneyed -idealism, written largely by photoplaywrights who use the fiction -medium simply because it enables them to exact a higher price for their -product, and catering to a photoplay public. For this moving-picture -influence extends not only to the makers of stories but to the general -reading public as well. It tames it, if indeed it need any taming, -molds it, forms it into a hardened cast with a definite æstheticism -which it carries from the cinema house to _Happy Stories_ and _Virile -Stories_ and _Goody Stories_ and back again. There are traditional -themes, traditional views and a traditional treatment, in spite of the -loud cry for novelty, and any theme, view or treatment violating the -tradition, should it succeed to get by the vigilantes higher up, has to -brave a combat with this traditional moving-picture taste. - -The young story writer, like his more mature brother or sister, is -infected with this influence and from the very beginning of his -career looks askance at any doctrine that conflicts with his proud -æstheticism. But in our profession it is seldom that he is required to -be false to the culture of the screen. Our textbooks and the bombastic -dogmas they largely exploit are themselves for the most part a product -of the same culture. He is told to think in terms of action rather than -in terms of idea and character. He is trained in the construction and -management of situation and incident until, although not consciously -intending to, he is able, like his more successful colleagues, to -turn out passable photoplay material. Small wonder that most of our -short stories abound in wooden characters, clumsily moving about on -well-oiled springs, thinking stereotyped thoughts and talking wooden -dialogue. The atmosphere fanning upon them has the hot fetid tang of -the darkened-theatre air. - -When told to write a story the student almost without hesitation -betakes himself to his supreme source for plot material. It matters -little that this material itself merely represents the adaptation -of some fiction story. The moving pictures today could be used as -another illustration of Emerson’s theory of circles, or is it merely -a modification of the delightful pastime of see-saw of which we were -so fond in our childhood? The scenario writer adapts the magazine -story and the magazine story writer adapts the photoplay story, etc., -etc., ad infinitum. Of course the disguising twist often goes with it, -but the material nevertheless basically remains the same. And, as a -matter of fact, from the point of view of salability the method is not -without merit, everybody involved--the scenario editor, the producer, -the public--recognizes in the revamped material an old friend, and, if -the revamping has been done dexterously and ingeniously, glories in -its novel familiarity. The failures employing this method are confined -mainly to two classes of students--those who are temperamentally -entirely out of tune with the moving-picture traditions, a small -minority to be sure, and those who, though favorably attuned to the -spirit of the silver sheet, fail to acquire the knack of giving their -work the necessary disguising twist which passes for the much-vaunted -novelty. - -Admitting that it would be extremely difficult and perhaps even -futile to attempt to wean the young student-majority away from the -well-assimilated influence of the show house, one cannot avoid -speculation upon what could be made by a serious-minded critical -teaching profession of the open-minded minority diffidently seeking -encouragement in their desire to follow newer traditions or to give -birth to still newer ones. If for one chapter in our texts or for one -semester in our institutions of learning the joy of creating for the -mere love of it, for the sheer beauty of it, had been glorified as we -glorify popularity and commercial success, what a buoyancy of spirit we -could have engendered, what a fluttering of young wings! - -For two years in succession a young woman came to my classes and -each year she dropped out before the expiration of the term sending -me a note of despair. She had traveled extensively through Europe -and the Orient as well as through North and South America and she -had accumulated a fund of experience to draw on for material. She -tried hard to imprison it in story form but the finished product -lacked thrill and suspense and airiness. She received nothing but the -cold platitudes of printed rejection slips, while other students--as -innocent of any knowledge of life as a fluffy ingénue capering through -five reels of silent drama--who modeled their work along the lines -of _Popular Stories_ and the _Jolly Book Magazine_ and the latest -releases, and seasoned it with a generous dash of O. Henryism, -occasionally displayed fair-sized checks. She worked away despondently -and each succeeding story tended to prove that the text we were using -and the current magazines we were studying were helping her but little. -There was a heaviness, almost an eeriness, permeating her work, and yet -it was a heaviness somewhat akin to that which permeates the work of -Thomas Hardy. She admitted that most of the magazines we were studying -bored her, that she preferred “Beyond the Horizon” and “John Ferguson” -to “Irene” and “The Passing Show.” I advised her to write sombre -tragedy, yes, morbid stuff. She produced a passably good story. It was -rejected by the first magazine she sent it to with a personal letter -expressing the editors’ regrets at their inability to accept such an -interesting story, but they never purchased “depressing” material. -Wouldn’t she be kind enough to let them see something else of her work, -something in much lighter vein? She refused to try another market, -insisting that she had known all along that she could not write. -All the writers’ magazines she had read and even our own textbook -declared most emphatically that “morbid” stories were not wanted. She -discontinued her studies. - -The next year she came back. “I can’t help writing,” she apologized. -“I simply can’t resist the impulse to write. I don’t care if I don’t -sell, I am going to write just for myself--whatever I like. I merely -want you to see what I am doing.” A few months later she sold a tragic -little tale to an unpopular little periodical. But she did not take -advantage of this, her first success. Soon her work began to show -labored flippancy and attempted ingenuity, and it looked ludicrously -pathetic--a Hawthorne austerity with an H. C. Witwer lightness; the -combination was irritably grotesque. Before the end of the year she -dropped out again. And now she is back once more. Whether she will ever -be able to cut away entirely from the cords of a moving-picture impulse -only time can tell. - -This case is a mild example of the struggle now waged with a sinister -environment alien to all literary aspiration except for immediate gain -by many lonely souls. Their resistance could be materially strengthened -by sympathetic guidance. Contrary to the proverbial jibes of the cynics -the literary aspirant is far from possessing an over-abundance of -confidence. Intelligent persistence is a rare quality, not to be found -among too many. The mediocre aspirant either soon deserts the ranks or -begins to turn out salable wares. And the person with a genuine case -of divine afflatus also either leaves the ranks with a curse in his -heart or finally learns to turn out regulation material and becomes a -cynic for life. Cynicism may be a much more admirable attitude than -open-mouthed subservience, but it is not always conducive to sturdy -accomplishment. Often it is a sense of surrender. And since missions -seem to be such a popular necessity among our pedagogues and literary -clergy, what could be a more worthy one than the saving of these lonely -strugglers from life-long cynicism? But that requires, first of all, -an intelligent and fearless weighing of the forces on either side and -the rolling up of greater support on the side of the weaker. Truth and -spontaneity are struggling against stifling commercialism and artifice; -against a hostile environment resting complacently on old dilapidated -dogmas, and chuckling contentedly with its moving-picture standards of -life, art, and literature,--its moving-picture civilization. - - - - -CHAPTER V - -VERBOTEN - - -The field of the short story is first of all the field of the magazine. -To be a successful story writer requires a comprehensive knowledge -of the policies and preferences of the various periodicals that buy -stories. It is natural to assume that literary agents, commercial -critics, and teachers should be well aware of these editorial policies -and preferences, and should make every effort to inspire the amateur -with the respect and deference due such essential knowledge. We use -this knowledge to stem any inclination to mischief. We hold it aloft, -over the heads of the unmanageable ones, threatening them with failure, -unless they become manageable. Thus we preserve the dignity of the -profession and help stragglers on their weary pilgrimage to the golden -calf. - -For us the task is after all an easy one. It is but necessary to -tabulate the good old taboos as to the content of our stories and -then be-write and be-lecture them to make our words impressive. We do -that in our teaching of photoplaywriting; we do it in the teaching of -fiction-writing. But no one has ever seriously labeled the photoplay -as it is finally produced on the screen as a form of literature, while -our fiction undeniably is a form, if not _the_ form, of our national -literature. It behooves us, therefore, to bring forward all the pomp -and pride and glory we are capable of and point out the peculiar -characteristics that distinguish our fiction as a national product from -the fiction of other nations. And we usually find it more advisable -to do it by the negative method of pointing out what our fiction is -not rather than by the positive method of pointing out what it is. -Crystallizing the more-important undesirable and therefore absent -elements in our fiction into single words, we can say that it is not -_pessimistic_; that it is not _lewd_; that it is not _irreverent_; that -it is not “_red_”; that it is not _un-American_. - -This does not mean that our literature abstains from all discussion of -the topics of pessimism, sex, religion, politics and economics, and -Americanism. It is merely the extent to which they are discussed and -the angle of discussion that elevate our fiction to a position of what -passes for national expression. Like the vicious circle that governs -photoplay scripts--adaptation of fiction stories being adapted in turn -from the screen and re-adapted back again into scripts--our opinions -on the phenomena of life are adaptations of the opinions imprisoned -within covers of best sellers and our million-and-more-circulation -magazines, only the circle is somewhat more complicated. Scripts -are written to meet the prejudices of all moving-picture patrons; -stories, to meet the needs of a particular type of reader. And this -much must be said for our magazines: The variety of types has made -possible whatever untrammelled literature we have. For after all there -is a wide difference between the moral tone of _Harper’s_ and the -arch-sophistication of the _Smart Set_, or between the big-business -glorification of the _Saturday Evening Post_ and the _New Success_ and -the artistic quiet and rebelliousness of the _Dial_ and the _Little -Review_. - -Whatever untrammelled literature we have, however, is little enough. -The tone-givers, the guides, the molders are the magazines of power -with public opinion and millions of dollars behind them, with -unbreakable traditional prejudices and taboos. And so long as the -humblest critic and the highest-paid institutional authority unite in -upholding these traditional taboos as glittering marks of Americanism, -public opinion will continue to demand a literature that is for the -most part infantile, insipid and lifeless. The generations that rise -to pound the typewriter keys in the production of stories are for the -most part imbued with this negative conception of our literature and -unquestionably the most dangerous instrument for the perpetuation of -this degrading conception is the literary teaching profession. Again, -in not a single textbook on story-writing have I been able to find an -intelligent, fearless analysis of our national taboos and their effect -of sterility upon our literature. I have found warnings and admonitions -and scarecrows. “Thou shalt not!” is the sum and substance of our -learned attitude on these mummifying influences. The vacillating feet -of the aspirant are directed toward the proper, well-trodden roads at -the very outset, and the punishment for straying is stressed to the -point where it requires a superhuman courage to brave it. - - -1. _Optimism_ - -Our first dictate is “Thou shalt not be morbid!” Depressing stuff -may be characteristic of the Russians, the Germans, the French, the -Italians, the Scandinavians, but not of the Americans. Ours is a young -country, a free country, a happy country, full of the joy of existence. -Ours is a hopeful people, cheerful and gay and proud; glad to be alive. -“People have all the gloom they want,” says the editor of _The American -Magazine_ in his “Fourteen Points” to contributors. “They manufacture -it on their own premises. You cannot sell them gloom. What they want -to buy is a cure for their gloom. They don’t want to buy more gloom.” -And Dr. Frank Crane in his ever-buoyant style exclaims: “_The Saturday -Evening Post_ and _The American Magazine_ have what I call ‘good -literature.’”[18] - -Since salability is the only criterion of worth, any story that -violates our fundamental optimistic tone is at once intercepted, -revamped, “improved” or pronounced hopeless and condemned to -extinction. “Not salable,” is a phrase as ominous as a jury’s “Guilty!” -on a charge of murder in the first degree, and the only appeal possible -is for the defendant to plead a sudden seizure of passionate desire -to “pack up his troubles in his old kit bag and smile, smile, smile!” -And so the law of supply and demand operates once more. The “calamity -howler” is eliminated and the man or woman with the “smile that won’t -come off” gets to the top. American literature becomes enriched by the -advent of another “genius” imbued with the gospel that “life is great -fun, after all!” - -That no literature can thrive on such a barren optimism seems -to be a statement so obvious as to challenge even the mere -ordinary intelligence offering it. Yet pedants carry forward this -optimism-tradition and preach, and lecture, and prate about the spirit -of America, and threaten and punish and outlaw the few unfortunate -rebels. What literature can a country produce which refuses to take -even the most timid peep at life as it is, which shuts its eyes in -very horror at the most fundamental problems of the land, which does -not brood, contemplate or inquire, which does not know the benediction -of a tear or the relief of a sigh? Can a steady diet of sugar produce -anything more invigorating than diabetes? And literary sugar is what -we think and preach and worship. All heroines are pretty; all heroes -succeed; all complications are solved; wedding bells ring; promotions -are given out; only bad people die young; the good live to a mellow age -of four score and ten; life is a fairy-tale in which all the fairies -are sweet young things waving magic wands over honest young brokers of -their choice; the world, and America especially, is a Vale of Tempe -where limousines are passed out as the reward of virtue and endeavor -and where successful matches are consummated. - -Our writers must be either inanimate machines or sorry human beings -trained to suppress their instincts and moods. They must be on -their guard not to succumb to the “blues”; quick to inhibit any sad -reflection or discouraging thought. “If you can’t see the sun is -shining,” wrote one editor very bluntly, rejecting a “depressing” -story, “take Epsom salts and sleep it over.” And whether they are -drowsy or not, sleep it over our writers must. Those who suffer with -insomnia find their good neighbors either snoring peacefully or -stamping about in infuriated protest. Our writers must sift their -experience; if it is tragic or insufficiently uplifting they must -dispatch it to oblivion. It is really most advisable not to draw upon -experience at all. Not of such stuff can optimistic fiction be made. -For is there life without tears and heartache and doubt; without -innumerable deaths of precious fragile dreams; without graying of -heads; without perplexity? Hence arises what Van Wyck Brooks calls “the -doctrine of the fear of experience.... It assumes that experience is -not the stuff of life but something essentially meaningless; and not -merely meaningless but an obstruction which retards and complicates our -real business of getting on in the world and getting up in the world, -and which must, therefore, be ignored and forgotten and evaded and -beaten down by every means in our power.”[19] - -Here again the inconsistency in our theory of optimistic fiction is -glaring. We shriek anathemas at any native product that repudiates it, -yet we bow with respect to importations. We acclaim all the morbid -geniuses of Europe; we accord their works places of special privilege -in our curricula; we consider it a mark of culture to mention the -titles of at least a half-dozen depressing books. Even our most -respectable magazines are proud on occasion to publish a story by an -eminent European author with the flamboyant legend placed upon it or -boxed in the center of its first page by the editor: “No one but Gorki -(or Maeterlink, or D’Annunzio, or D. H. Lawrence, or whoever else it -might be) would have the courage to write a story such as this, and no -magazine in America but _The_---- would have the courage to publish -it.” The same legend is placed sometimes upon the work of a native -writer, but after reading the story one finds that either the writer -did not dare, after all, or that the editor of the brave magazine -edited the contribution; that both the writer and the worthy editor had -been so frightened at the mere flap of a wing that they had to offer an -apology for attempting to soar. - -This inconsistency is particularly reflected in our current criticism -and literary textbooks. With the same breath a reviewer will praise -Dostoyevski and chastise some native youngster for his horrible -morbidity. In the same chapter the text will refer to Chekhov and -Maupassant and Zola and Poe with almost cringing reverence and -eloquently preach the gospel of cheap optimism as the supreme message -of the story writer. And the young would-be procures copies of the -great masters, reads them, and comes back perplexed. “Why do _they_ -write about such horrid things?” asks one young student. I look into -her large, innocent eyes and smile. The Great Creator must have been in -a diplomatic mood when he invented a smile. I glance down at my copy -of _The Literary News_, lying on my desk and note that an editor of a -prominent and liberally-paying magazine is in the market for “stories -of rapid action--cheery short stories, encouraging, helpful--the kind -that makes the world better,” and I proceed to discuss how this kind of -story is written.... - - -2. _Sex_ - -Of all our taboos none has contributed so large a share in keeping our -literature swathed in baby blankets as that on sex. In its essence -it is merely a direct irradiation of taboo No. 1 on optimism. If -everything in the universe is good and beautiful and holy and the -writer’s business is to chant incessant halleluiahs, then sex is all -of these and must be treated reverently. Its unsavory aspects as well -as those leading to unhappiness must be passed by, and since in the -muddled world we are living in sex has felt most severely the combined -forces of bigotry, suppression and inhibition, of pathologic social and -moral conditions, its aspects are most frequently unsavory and unhappy -and therefore must be either ignored entirely or made savory and happy. -We have a hoary phrase perpetually playing upon our glib lips--it is -to the effect that we are a “clean-living, moral people.” The phrase -itself has long lost its meaning, even to the most uninformed of -citizens, but it has remained a sacred fetish forever, it seems. - -Again it is not in the total abstaining from any treatment of sex that -our taboo is expressed, but in our peculiar angle of treatment. Total -abstaining were indeed impossible, for any literature, and least of all -for our literature. The truth is that ours is, in the main, essentially -a sex-literature--largely because of our “reverent” attitude. -Strong elemental forces long suppressed erupt in irrepressible, -if furtive, curiosity. No country on earth can boast of as many -periodicals specializing in the risque, the sexually-sensational, the -cheaply suggestive, as the land of the “clean-living.” The fact is -incontrovertible. Where there is a continued supply there must be a -continued demand. Our publishers know their market. Even the titles of -a host of our periodicals exploit, not too artistically, this crude -reaction of a sex-conscious people. “Saucy Stories,” “Breezy Stories,” -“Snappy Stories,” “Live Stories,” “Droll Stories,” “The Parisienne,” -“True Stories,” “The Follies,” “Telling Tales,” “Secrets,” “I Confess,” -“True Confessions,” “High Life,” “Hot Dog,”--these are some of the -titles that wink mischievously at the purchaser timid with guilt. But -the purchaser is rarely pleased with his dissipation. He finds the -wine exceedingly mild. Most of the stories under the suggestive cover -bearing the inviting title and a still more inviting pretty girl, -usually attired in very becoming _négligé_, are, after all, “clean.” - -And this “cleanness” is the characteristic blight of nine-tenths -of our entire literature. It is vulgar with the lowest kind of -sex-consciousness but it doesn’t go “too far.” It is the “cleanness” of -our moving pictures. Is there any reason why a production entitled “Du -Barry” in Europe should be rechristened to read “Passion” for American -exhibition? Is there any reason why Barrie’s “Admirable Crichton” -should become “Male and Female” as a photoplay? Is there any reason for -such titles as “Sex,” “The Restless Sex,” “His Wedded Wife,” “The First -Night,” “The She Woman,” “The Leopard Woman,” “Wedded Husbands,” “Why -Wives Go Wrong,” “Forbidden Fruit,” “The Primrose Path,” “What Happened -to Rosa,” “Why Change Your Wife?” “The Woman Untamed,” etc., etc? It -surely does not require an erudite psychoanalyst to find the reason for -this avalanche of suggestiveness. - -Perhaps, if they deemed it wise to speak, our motion-picture producers -could shed some light on the subject. Seemingly their opinion of our -“clean-living, moral people” is not very flattering. And their judgment -is substantially founded upon the generous reports they receive from -the distributing exchanges. - -Here, too, carefully as the titles are selected the pictures themselves -are “clean.” If they were not, the various Boards of Censorship would -have seen to it that they become so. At most a director will manage -to show the heroine plunging into her morning’s rose-water bath, as in -“Male and Female,” for instance, or an exotic harem partially disrobing -for a cold dip into the perfumed waters of the Rajah’s pool, as in -“Kismet.” Whether the scenes are vitally necessary to the unfolding of -the plot is immaterial. They constitute an irresistible attraction in -themselves, and must be smuggled in, if possible. A couple of feet of -nakedness results in thousands of dollars’ worth of advertising. - -What is true of the moving pictures is equally true of our spoken -stage. Think of “Twin Beds” and “Up in Mabel’s Room” and “Parlor, -Bedroom and Bath” and “Mary’s Ankle” and “Nighty, Nighty” and -“Scrambled Wives” and “Ladies’ Night in a Turkish Bath” and -“Getting Gertie’s Garter” and the various “Follies” and “Scandals” -and a hundred-and-one other titles which were surely chosen for a -purpose--the same purpose which impelled some years ago the manager -of the old Academy of Music in New York to advertise a stock company -production of Daudet’s “Sapho” as the “greatest immoral play ever -written.” And again the plays themselves are not remotely as licentious -as the titles would intimate. - -What, then, is this “cleanness” of ours? What are its impositions and -how far can they be stretched? The answer is simple and more than a -trifle sad. Our “cleanness” excludes serious thought. “Something -audacious suits us, but nothing salacious,” writes one editor of a -well-known publication of the frothy type. “Salacious” stands for -thought, reflection, analysis. A little suggestiveness, a hint, a -double-edged joke, a farcical situation, a vulgar thrust, will do. -But a deep, sincere analysis, a fearless uncovering of a cowering -conscience--that is salacious, immoral, lewd, unclean. That accounts -for the free and open dissemination of so much debasing, lurid stuff -and the hypocritical suppression of Dreiser and Cabell. That accounts -for the popularity of Bertha M. Clay _et al._ and the unpopularity -of Sherwood Anderson _et al._ Sex is a fit subject to jest about, to -inject breezily as a gently-naughty stimulant. Sex as an elemental -force which shapes the lives of men and women, which actuates their -struggles in this terrestrial sphere of ours, making for success or -failure, for happiness or despair, for sinner or saint, is vile, -lascivious, and therefore taboo. - -The literary teaching profession has not passed this degrading scene -unnoticed. It has broken up in two camps. The great mass of instructors -have simply adopted the position that a writer must give whatever is -demanded of him. Would a tailor refuse to accept an order calling for -a fabric he personally does not approve of and a fashion he detests? -Granted that this is not a particularly lofty conception of literary -art, it is still less pernicious than the conception held by the -smaller group of so-called idealists in the profession. To these the -sex aspect of our literature calls for stormy denunciation. They would -impress upon the future writer the sanctity of his mission. The pen -must not be polluted. Sex must be left alone entirely. The moral tone -must be preserved in all productions. Laws for the ruthless suppression -of the unclean must be fought for and their enactment obtained. - -What these honest Puritans cannot understand is that the entire -class of bawdy, sex-reeking literature is a product of the very laws -they have been fortunate enough to have enacted; that the complete -abolition of these laws and the absolute cessation from persecution -in the interests of morality of any expression of sex would purge our -literature of the curse as nothing else. If any one could purchase -a mature, intelligent literary expression of the mysterious passion -that animates nature and moves the world, the profane effusions of -shriveled minds would appear shocking and abhorrent by comparison. All -literature that has ever been written has dealt directly or indirectly -with the relation of men and women--for the very trite reason that all -life that has ever been lived has been the life of this relation of -men and women. To place the yellow ticket of evil upon this relation -as a literary subject is to degrade it beyond words of contempt. The -prevailing spectacle of our literary sewage is perfectly natural: the -thought of uncleanness wrapped around the stuff of life is bound to -pollute it. - -But the pernicious influence of this immoral taboo goes beyond its -direct inhibition of the most legitimate of themes. It perpetuates -an æsthetic literary tenet which is a relic of the Age of Darkness. -It is to the effect that the morality or unmorality of its contents -determines the value of a literary production. “It is a shame that such -splendid writing should be wasted on such an atrocious theme,” said -a sweet little lady student apropos Sherwood Anderson’s “The Other -Woman.”[20] The remark at once characterized her as a member of the -Second-Grade Bigots. The First-Grade Bigots would not permit themselves -to see any excellences in a work so pronouncedly unorthodox. When -cornered, the little lady admitted that there might be sound psychology -in Anderson’s story--and a large measure of unsavory truth. “But why -choose such horrid themes when there are so many nice, clean ones?” -It is the cry of all Pollyanna-nurtured readers. It’s the cry of the -author of “Pollyanna” herself. “Is there, then, no human experience -that deals with the good, the happy, the beautiful?” she asks, in a -circular issued by her publishers. “Are joy, faith and purity utterly -illogical? Is only the thunder-cloud real?--the sunshine a sham?” -In such cases argument is impossible. The criterion of moral and -optimistic content is deep-rooted and well-nourished by authority. Is -it not largely this same criterion that for more than a half century -prevented the acceptance by the Judges of Walt Whitman as a poet, and -that is excluding the name of Theodore Dreiser from its rightful place -in our scholarly histories of the modern American novel? - -To counteract this blind perpetuation of a fallacious doctrine -demands a complete severance with old school criticism and old-age -pedagogy. Not until authority-worship is mightily shaken can this -be accomplished. But that would be a hopeless task to undertake. -The great mass must have and will have its Great Authorities to bow -to. It is easier than to depend upon one’s own critical faculties. -Besides, habit has become second nature. We have always been taught -that knowledge is merely to know where to find what we want to know. -No, we must be merciful; our literary apostles must remain. But among -them there are those that are blind with senility and those that are -glowing with fresh vision. Let us follow the more musical of the new -criers until they, in their turn, reach their dotage and truth turns -to ashes in their toothless mouths. In no other way can we hope to -uproot the puerile beliefs that art can be judged by its optimistic -or uplifting message, by its morality, or by any other of, what Joel -Elias Spingarn terms, the “Seven confusions.” We have not yet reached -the stage where the relativity of the term “morality” can be discussed -with impunity and to any considerable advantage. But we can bring to -bear upon a rising generation of readers and writers all the force of -our warm logic to combat the notion that any standard of morality, no -matter how sublime, has any determining value in art. We can insist -that a story might be entirely devoid of any moral significance and yet -be an immortal masterpiece; that the whole notion is merely another -one of the confusions we have inherited from an age which was too busy -developing the raw resources of a vast young continent--a task which -necessitated the invocation of Providential aid--to pay attention to -literature. - -“To say that poetry (or any other art) is moral or immoral is as -meaningless as to say that an equilateral triangle is moral and an -isosceles triangle immoral. Surely we must realize the absurdity of -testing anything by a standard which does not belong to it or a purpose -for which it was not intended. Imagine these whiffs of conversation at -a dinner table: ‘This cauliflower would be excellent if it had only -been prepared in accordance with international law.’ ‘Do you know why -my cook’s pastry is so good? He has never told a lie or seduced a -woman.’ But why multiply obvious examples? We do not concern ourselves -with morals when we test the engineer’s bridge or the scientist’s -researches; indeed we go farther, and say that it is the moral duty of -the scientist to disregard morals in his search for truth. As a man he -may be judged by moral standards, but the truth of his conclusions can -only be judged by the standard of science.... Art is expression, and -poets succeed or fail by their success or failure in completely and -perfectly expressing themselves. If the ideals they express are not -the ideals we admire most, we must blame not the poets but ourselves; -in the world where morals count we have failed to give them the proper -material out of which to rear a nobler edifice. To separate art and -morality is not to destroy moral values but to augment them--to give -them increased powers and a new freedom in the realm in which they have -the right to reign.”[21] - - -3. _Religion_ - -It is literally true that American literature is not irreverent. -The penalty for meddling with religion in any unconventional way is -contemptuous obscurity. But meddling with religion in a way that brings -out its blessings to humanity is praiseworthy and leads to opulence and -glory. For that reason nine-tenths of our literature has a strain of -religious righteousness running through it. In the main the specters -of Cotton Mather and Jonathan Edwards still hover over our literary -output, imparting to it a theological tint. Our fictionists are still -obsessed with the idea that a story or a novel must preach, must -instill the right kind of ideals, must exert a redeeming influence -upon its reader. To be sure, the experienced ones among them are fully -aware of the dangers of obvious moralizing, but they have mastered the -devious ways of preaching without arousing the reader’s suspicion that -he is being preached to. - -It is this last point--the devious ways of unsuspected preaching--that -my profession is concerned with. Either we are altogether silent on the -subject of religion in literature, deeming it too ticklish a subject -upon which to commit ourselves, or we are zealous in our efforts to -perpetuate the tradition that literature must complement the work of -the church, only in a less outspoken way. Perhaps we do not do it -consciously but the results obtained are the same. We merely advise -students as to what subjects may be exploited and what subjects may -not. Surely a subject bordering on the atheistic could never be made -salable; not more than two or three periodicals would be open to such -a story--and these of the obscure, “freaky” kind. Without a doubt even -such a mild story as Balzac’s “An Atheist’s Mass” could never have seen -the light of publication in an American periodical. The fact that -the hero remains unconverted to the end would be fatal. We may write -a story about an atheist, and have written such, but in our story, -when the dénouement comes, the hero must exclaim to the assembled -multitude, that he had tried to live without God and had found it -unprofitable. The fact that there might be some poor wretch of a hero -in this queer wide world who would not issue such a proclamation does -not detract from the urgency of such a dénouement. It is one of our -devious ways; without it the story can hope to travel no farther than -the return-to-author basket. The characters we create must ultimately -come to know God and the church--or they never come to know the reader. -It is doubtful if an American Flaubert could hope for as cordial a -reception of an atheistic character of his as the French have accorded -the mediocre M. Homais of “Madame Bovary” fame. - -It is far from my purpose to leave the implication that literature -should preach atheism; but neither should it preach religion, theology, -or anything else, for that matter, except in so far as life itself is -a sermon to whomever it pleases to view it as such. “As a rule we may -say that nothing in the world improves one less than sermonizing books -and conversations; nothing is more wearisome, quite apart from the fact -that nothing is more inartistic.... We do not demand of an author that -he should work to make us better.... All that we can demand of him -is that he work conscientiously.”[22] The moment an author stoops to -uplift us he loses his balance as an artistic observer, recorder, and -interpreter. - -The attitude of our literature toward religion is based on a churchy -interpretation of life and character which was unconsciously but none -the less comprehensively expressed in a magazine article by Dr. Frank -Crane. “Church people,” he wrote, “as a rule, pay their debts, observe -the decencies of life, are clean of mind and body, cultivate those -qualities that make for a successful and contented life, and get along -together peacefully. And, as a rule, the embezzlers, thugs, drunkards, -harlots, rascals, adulterers, gamblers, and swindlers do not cultivate -church-going to any great extent.”[23] - -This is a safe and sane doctrine to embrace when writing fiction for -the popular magazines. Our editors, almost universally, have embraced -it, and even though the Reverend Doctor specifically states that -he speaks of people “as a rule,” which would permit of exceptions, -editors at large will not recognize the existence of such exceptions. -Truth does not count and experience is an illusion. If a writer has in -his life had the misfortune of coming across a man or woman who was -kind, charitable, gentle, moral, and noble and yet instead of being -affiliated with a church was a member of the Secular League and a -subscriber to the Truth Seeker he would best suppress the latter two -points. If a writer has read statistics of extra-generous donations -made to various church funds and has found among the names of donors -not a few of universally notorious embezzlers, he must ignore the fact, -if only in the interests of his career. His motto must be: Never write -anything about church that could not be turned into an advertisement of -the institution. If the motto conflicts with life, scratch life. - -And yet religion, like sex, is one of the basic forces of life; it has -helped to shape the course of human history and civilization. To deny -the artist the prerogative to touch upon it unless it be in praise -is to deny him the means to probe the human soul. To compel him to -accept any institution as infallible and therefore beyond question of -imperfection is to fetter his spirit. That a man who is a respected -member of a respected church cannot be a thief in his business life or -a brute at home is a more prostituting doctrine, the more so if not -actually believed in but adopted for commercial purposes only, than -any harlot was ever guided by, because it is so flagrantly contrary to -truth. That the call of sex can never prove stronger than the holiest -of religious precepts is a malicious canon of hypocritical dogmatism. -This is the natural stuff of literature--the dramatic conflicts and -seeming paradoxes, physical, psychic and intellectual, the eternal -clash of nature and dogma, of passion and idea, of man and the world. - -Puny fledgelings come to us for instruction in aerial literary -navigation and we look in the tome of Thou Shalt Nots and clip their -weak little wings. “Never dare to lift yourself more than a yard -above the earth,” we admonish; “and you’ll find it easier if you use -this trick and that,” we add. If, perchance, one of them after awhile -finds the fawning breath of the earth too close and spreads its wings -and begins to soar up into the clear ether we shrug our shoulders -compassionately and say to the rest: “Another young bird gone wrong.” -It has broken the limits of our taboos; it has tasted the wine of pure -ozone; it has heard the call of exploration; it has turned irreverent. -Should it succeed in growing a few dazzling feathers by the time it -comes back in sight we may meet it with music and shout to it the -hospitality of our gardens--as a mark of our ability to appreciate fine -feathers; but more frequently we let it starve to death and keep the -music for a touching funeral. During their lifetime we have nothing to -do with the irreverent.... - - -4. _Social and Political Problems_ - -No literature is more afraid of a courageous presentation of the social -welter which America, in common with all the rest of the world, is -undergoing in this age of reconstruction, than American literature. -Not that it entirely fails to touch upon the mighty problems that have -shaken our national life, but it still clings to an ancient sense of -delicacy and an orthodox point of view which determines what may and -may not be said. Whether a writer really subscribes to the point of -view which colors nearly all of our efforts is immaterial; in order -to sell his product he must adopt it, irrespective of any protesting -personal scruples he might feel. Thus we find our literature, with the -exception of a small and highly unprofitable part, expressing no more -advanced views on the social phenomena of the day than our forefathers -held, and most frequently less advanced. - -The editor of _The Coming Nation_, discussing the kind of stories that -are not wanted by film companies, mentions, among others, stories -“where the hero arises and makes a soap-box speech on Socialism -converting all by-standers.”[24] This statement applies with equal -force to our magazine fiction as well. That no respectable editor of a -fiction periodical will take such stories is a fact universally known -among people acquainted with prevailing policies of our magazines. -There would be nothing sinister in this policy, it would even be -highly laudable, were it based on the logical assumption that men’s -minds are not so easily swayed and that therefore no audience of -by-standers can be converted by a single speech. But it is based on -no such reasoning. The fact is that the story depicting a speaker -converting by a few eloquent phrases, let us say, a body of strikers, -to the employer’s point of view, impelling them to forsake their -scheming leaders, tainted by European gold, of course, and return to -work will and does find a ready market. Even the lack of story values -are frequently overlooked where such a fictive incident occurs. The -greatest of our national weeklies and monthlies will open their columns -to the padded dissertation in story disguise on the unreasonableness of -workingmen, or the inefficiency of government control of industries, or -the blessings of a Big Business Administration. - -What really determines the policy of exclusion of certain topics or -angles of presentation is the safe-guarding of the interests of the -big advertisers and the personal prejudices of the publishers. Our -experienced writers, as well as the instructors of student-writers who -know their business, know these prejudices perfectly. They know that -popular views “get by” even if the artistry is not so very obstrusive. -They know that unless one can fall in with the established views of -the great majority it is best to leave social and political problems -alone and to write about the South Seas, or Alaska, or the romantic -story of John Jones, Jr., a son of a village blacksmith, who, after -many thrilling hardships finally married Ivy Van Schyler, the pampered -heiress of noble lineage and a huge block of sound railroad stock. They -even know such small details as that if a hero uses soap, it is best -not to mention it by an existing brand, for it may offend advertisers -trying to fasten upon the public rival brands; that “talking machine” -is safer than “Victrola” or “Grafonola” or any other patented name; -that, in a word, no free advertising be given any company, thus causing -other advertisers to complain. They know that it is dangerous to make -a character intimate that his health has been impaired as a result of -drinking too much ginger-ale, or taking headache powders, or yeast, or -tobacco, or anything else, for that matter, that advertisers sell. It -makes no difference whether a writer has accumulated a fund of personal -observation to corroborate his statement. There are people who are -trying to sell these products and will surely lodge a protest with the -advertising manager of the publication in which such a story appears. -In fact, numerous cases where such inadvertent remarks have resulted in -diminished advertising space are on record. - -It is to the interest of these same all-powerful advertisers to see -that no aspersions be cast in our magazine fiction upon the inalienable -rights and dignities of Business and that no dangerous views be -expressed which might sway a vigilantly guarded public mind in -undesirable directions. Existing social and political institutions may -be defended in our fiction but not attacked or criticized; their merits -may be extolled, but their demerits must not be betrayed to an innocent -world. Private property is sacred; the State is always right--except -when it attempts to interfere with Property; then a thinly veiled story -decrying this interference as autocratic, tyrannous and un-American -might get by and bring a fair price. Progress is a generality that -affects us but little; the laws of change are suspended when applied to -our literary reactions to our social life. Other nations may develop -new schools of fictionists, young, virile, boldly speaking their minds -on the moot problems of the day. We have no room for such impudence. -Our literature is “pure,” level-headed, conservative. Some isolated -muck-rakers appear here and there, but we give them no outlet for their -muck-raking, and they must either reform or perish or, at best, when we -are helpless to prevent it, get a measure of barren notoriety. - -An army officer, an advanced student, once handed in a splendidly -written story of army life, in which he gave a graphic portrayal of -court-martial proceedings. The apathy and criminal nonchalance with -which helpless boys were sentenced to long-term imprisonment, in -the name of discipline, was so artistically woven into a thrilling -plot that it made interesting reading even to the most avid fiction -devotees. Yet the story had gone the rounds of nearly all the -paying magazines without finding a market. A few friendly editors -wrote the author personal letters, one editor going so far as to -express his appreciation of the work, but admitting that the story -was deemed “unavailable because it does not meet with the policy of -this publication.” I supplied the discouraged author with a list of -unconventional publications--for fortunately we do have a fighting -number of them with us--that might welcome his story but could afford -to pay either very little or not at all. He refused to waste his work -on the “freaks,” and wanted to know if he could not revise the story -to make it salable to a standard magazine. I told him that elimination -of all incidents reflecting unfavorably upon the administration of law -in our army would undoubtedly help. He protested that the incidents -had been taken from life and held out for a while, but finally he -succumbed to his intense desire to “get in.” The story was revised -and made perfectly harmless--“sweet” and happy; it sold on its first -trip. The officer has never again attempted to use life as a basis -for fiction--indiscriminately. It was his first altercation with -policies--and probably his last. It requires greater powers than he was -blessed with to put up a more valiant resistance. - -It is a sad comment on education that under existing circumstances, -instructors of writers are obliged to help undermine this natural -resistance a few rebellious spirits occasionally display. One whose -entire stock in trade is a knowledge of markets and policies and an -ability to expound existing standards is not in a very advantageous -position to encourage disregard of immutable taboos. We must say, on -reading a story which is off-standard, that it won’t sell, and why. -We must formulate and enforce the rules that make for “success” in -fiction writing. We must be vestals of the sacred fires. I am aware -that “vestals” is not exactly the right word one should use in this -connection; perhaps another word connoting less virtue would be more -apt. But, after all, most of us are honest, and zealously believe that -the fires are sacred and must not be allowed to go out or be polluted. -Vision? Well,--aren’t the blind happy? - - -5. _Americanism_ - -As applied to our literature the term American has come to mean -everything and anything. It compliments the mediocre twaddle of -mediocre minds. To earn the compliment a story must be neither sad nor -“fresh” nor irreverent nor “red.” It must not be burdened with too much -thought or sincere emotion. It must have no glimmer of an original -idea. It must “kiss the hand that feeds it,”--which means in this case -that it must breathe a sweet humility to all our institutions, from -the First Law of the land to the American Legion and Babe Ruth. It -must be “glad to be alive and carry on”--everything that is old and -respectable and decrepit and green with mold. - -Let a piece of literary art reflect an unhackneyed thought, let it -break any one of our ancient taboos, let it dare to belittle any one of -our glorified generalities and dogmas--and it is promptly howled down -as un-American. The literature of every other country on earth affords -an interpretative and critical view of the psychology of the national -mind it reflects, while American literature is least reflective of the -American national mind, except in one particular: its cringing fear -of the truth. Were it not for this fear to face the truth, and the -inability of the average American to stand criticism, the great bulk -of our “literature” would find no buyers and its content would undergo -a radical change. It is this national trait that has given rise to the -sublime injunction, “Don’t knock!” We may have heard of Matthew Arnold, -but surely never of his heretic doctrine that literature is a criticism -of life. To us literature is largely a matter of so many words at so -much per word, or so many hugs and kisses and careers attained per -magazine page. - -Is it to be wondered at that with us we have the interminable problem: -What shall we write about? With one of the largest countries in the -world in which to live; with over one hundred millions of people -living and working and battling and dreaming all about us; with a -multitude of perplexing problems, international, national, municipal, -class, clan, and individual, clamoring for solution; with a rich, -ever-shifting panorama of a young, virile, national existence before -us; with a million comedies and a million tragedies avidly looking at -our typewriter keys--with all this to be had for the taking, isn’t it -pathetically absurd that we must voyage the seven seas and scour all -the corners of the earth in search of material? Open any magazine any -month and note the proportion of stories located in far, out-of-the-way -places. Even our best writers are following this romantic bent. -Twenty-five per cent. of the stories contained in O’Brien’s “Year-book” -for 1919 had a foreign setting; his “Year-book” for 1920 contained -over thirty per cent. of stories with foreign settings--mostly exotic -and bizarre. No serious objections could be taken to transcribing -the life of foreign places, if we had first become aware of our own. -But we have not. We hunt for foreign material simply because we are -afraid to sift our own. We are only now beginning to realize that our -young continent--this huge, crude meltingpot--is filled with brass -and copper and gold, and that these metals are melting and fusing -into some homogeneous substance, which we vaguely term America. We -want this burst of consciousness to grow and sweep us along to great -revelations, but a false pride and obsolete traditions and hypocritical -dogmas are blocking the way. Parrot-like we shout from pulpit and -rostrum and cathedra the old banality: “Boost! All the world loves a -booster!” And because we like to be loved we dare not touch upon the -wounds of life--the hunger, the passions, the buffets, the defeats -that purge its sordidness, gild its drabness, and actuate us to nobler -aspirations. - -We pride ourselves that we have developed the short story to -perfection. It has become our national form of literary expression. It -has reached an unparalleled vogue. But, in truth, if we are entitled -to pride, it is on account of our remarkable achievement of an ability -to tell an entertaining tale without telling anything worth while. -Paradoxically, we squeeze amusement out of nothing. We have attained -an excellence of workmanship without the least depth of substance. -But I am anticipating. This phase of the subject is so important that -it deserves a chapter for itself, which it will receive later on. The -real perfection of our short story is yet to come. The signs are that -it is having its birth pangs at this time. Writers of rich promise -have come to the fore recently--and here and there a magazine, either -new or an old one with a new policy, to receive their product. Our -perfected short story will be bold, fearless, vital; beating with -the vigorous pulse of a giant nation stretching its limbs. It will be -truly American--optimistic, with the rugged optimism of a Walt Whitman; -brave, with the courage of an impetuous youth; rich, with the colors of -a fertile soil and a blending humanity. Perhaps our short story is to -fulfill the hopes H. G. Wells once had for the novel: - -“The novel,” he wrote in _An Englishman Looks at the World_, “is to be -the social mediator, the vehicle of understanding ... the criticism of -laws and institutions and of social dogmas and ideas.... We are going -to write ... about the whole of human life. We are going to deal with -political questions and religious questions and social questions ... -until a thousand pretenses and ten thousand impostures shrivel in the -cold clear air of our elucidations.... Before we have done we will have -all life within the scope of the novel.” - -A lofty assignment, this, for a form of literature that is rooted, as -our short story always has been, in the precept that to be interesting -it must eschew reality. But we can carry it out--and will. Our pioneers -are already on the trail--weak as yet, not a full-grown Chekhov among -them--but gaining in hardihood, and singing. The hordes behind them are -waiting in safety; let the trail become a bit smoother, the hardships -lessened, and they will follow. In the meantime who that is filled -with that eternally human envious admiration for pluck can keep back -his “Good cheer!” and “Godspeed!”? - - - - -CHAPTER VI - -THE ARTIFICIAL ENDING - - -One of the surest tags of the American short story has been its -happy ending. No matter what vicissitudes the hero or heroine may -have undergone, what problems and tragedies may have overtaken them, -what unmendable exploits of circumstance or fate they may have been -subjected to, in the end all must be well with them. The happy ending -is a direct result of our uplift optimism, of our Pollyanna philosophy -of life, of our fear of reality. We have always justified it on the -ground of our national psychology, which, we claim, is buoyant and -aggressive and won’t accept defeat. We have insisted that the American -always “gets what he wants when he wants it.” And even the cynics among -us did not dispute our last claim; they pointed to the happy ending. - -It is true that of late, since it has become the fashion to question -everything, the happy ending has come in for its share of blasphemous -discussion. Here and there views have been expressed that a happy -ending is not absolutely necessary to make a story readable; some -of these views are so decidedly antagonistic as to maintain that a -happy ending is invariably inartistic, which simply proves, again, -that rebound is directed with equal force but in opposite direction as -the original bound. Even aspiring story writers come in occasionally -inoculated with doubt of the very propriety of the happy ending. To -such, we the votaries of the perfect short story, having exhausted all -our erudite arguments in a vain attempt at reconversion, finally apply -the one unfailing argument--the threat of the editorial rejection slip. -The happy ending, we admit, may not always be artistic, and it may not -always bring an acceptance, but the unhappy ending almost invariably -brings a rejection. - -The fallacy of the happy ending clearly illustrates the lack of any -sound system of thought or reasoning underlying the exposition and -production of American fiction. We have the support of venerable -theories and formulas and high-sounding abstractions, but not of -facts and logic. It is as if we dared not examine the result of the -application of our theories and the filling of our formulas. Glibly -we state the psychology of the average American reader, which we -profess to know so well, but do not care to assure ourselves whether -our deductions, and even our major premises are correct. For if it -were true that the average reader always demands a happy ending, we -would have no explanation of the popularity of most of the works of -Poe, Bret Harte, Jack London, Kipling, Conrad, Maupassant, and even -the gray Russians. Doubtless there are individual characteristics in -the writings of these gentlemen that have appealed to our happily -disposed readers, but how much of the appeal has been due to a vogue -created by official O. K.’ers? The inchoate reversion to an insistence -on the unhappy ending, which is becoming apparent among some layers -of our reading public, tends to confirm this suggestion. For it is -not probable that the same people who have never been able to enjoy a -story unless it ended happily should suddenly have been seized with a -passionate amour for the “morbid” ending; and, from any rational point -of view, it is just as fallacious to accept the unhappy ending as an -invariable rule as it is to accept the happy ending. One may be as -artificial as the other. - -Manifestly there are kinks in the average reader’s psychology of which -we have not been aware, or if we have, have paid little attention to. -This psychology which we have taken for granted and builded upon is not -after all so solid as we have supposed it to be. It can be and is being -molded. It appears that the present-day average reader fears nothing -so much as the imputation of being average. Here and there a brave -soul may vociferously boast of being a “low-brow,” thus betraying a -troubled consciousness of mediocrity, but on the whole the tendency is -to deplore the tastes of the average, thereby imputing to one’s self, -by implication of contrast, the possession of tastes above those of the -average. Hence the sudden ability to enjoy an unhappy ending. Hence -also the distrust of the average editor of this sudden growth in taste. -He knows its make-believe nature: the average reader may learn to -pretend a dislike for the good old happy ending, but in truth he enjoys -it as much as he ever did. Hence the continued demand for stories with -happy endings. - -This may not be such a cheering view of the average reader’s -psychology, but neither is it entirely cheerless. By exploiting its -hypocritical vein of pretended admiration for good literature, we may -hope ultimately to develop a genuine admiration. People of habitual -coarse tastes, for beverages, delicacies, clothes or arts, usually -begin the refining process by affecting the tastes of those whom they -think their betters. The process itself is rather long and tedious and -often disheartening. But the aping instinct helps measurably. We cannot -hope to have a discriminating reading public in a day. Too long have we -impressed upon our public the blessings of a happy disposition and the -artistry of reflecting it in our literature. Too long have we brazened -about our pride in Pollyanna, Wallingford, Torchy, and a hundred other -fictive chasers of the blues, who won’t take defeat but go on singing -on their way. The happy story, with its breezy style, its giggling -climax, and its smacking dénouement has become a fixed type from which -our readers’ affection cannot be so quickly alienated. - -D. W. Griffith, one of the ablest producers of moving pictures, is -reported to have made the statement that the average spectator of -cinema drama has the intelligence of a nine-year-old child.[25] That -Mr. Griffith is justified in his statement may be assumed from the -huge success he has had in purveying cinema entertainment. He has made -millions where others have made scanty half-millions. Verily, he knows -his public and is in a position to estimate its mental powers with -some measure of accuracy. His contempt of its intelligence does him -credit.... - -One of his greatest successes has been his production of “Way Down -East,” a spectacular melodrama of the old angel-girl-Satan-man variety, -with a resulting illegitimate baby which happily sees fit to die, -leaving the little mother to find work with a good Christian family. -But her past is against her and she is finally driven out into a -terrible snow-storm by a man who quotes the Bible by the yard, and the -women in the audience wet their little handkerchiefs, and the men hawk -and cough and blow their noses. The big scene of the picture, and which -is probably responsible for seventy-five per cent. of the picture’s -phenomenal success, shows a whole river of ice floating down toward a -furiously-dashing waterfall. The poor little heroine is on one of the -huge cakes of ice fast nearing the watery precipice, while the good -boy who loves her honestly is jumping like an acrobat after her in the -teeth of a raging storm. - -Now, all the moving-picture patrons in the country, from the past -experience of having witnessed one thousand pictures and read ten -thousand magazine stories, ought to know that there is not one chance -in a million that the plucky lover will not arrive in time to rescue -his sweetheart--such things have not happened and do not happen (in -our stories, of course!), yet they become wide-eyed and panting with -excitement, as if they were in doubt about the outcome. Griffith -uses the “cut-back” every ten or twenty feet, showing the thundering -falls, the crashing ice with the limp figure of the girl upon it, -the boy precariously maintaining his balance, then back again to the -falls; thus prolonging the agony until he thinks the public has got -its money’s worth; then the boy arrives, clasps the girl in his arms, -his erring Christian father asks her forgiveness and welcomes her as -a prospective daughter-in-law, and the public file out in the lobby, -exclaiming ecstatically to one another: “What a masterpiece!” Verily, -this Mr. Griffith knew whereof he spoke. - -Our public is still thrilled with a climax of whose outcome there -ought to be not the slightest doubt. Which merely proves that if our -fiction still has a measure of suspense it is not due to our clever -technique but to the almost fabulous stupidity of the large mass of -readers. We have evolved our tricks of technique for the prime purpose -of maintaining a keen suspense, of keeping the outcome of the conflict -which every story must have in the balance, of heightening the reader’s -curiosity to follow the destiny of the hero or heroine in whose behalf -his sympathies have been enlisted to a satisfactory end. But if after, -let us say, twenty years of reading fiction, there should suddenly dawn -upon our average reader’s mind the idea that as the hero or heroine -of a story is always immortal and unconquerable in the end, no matter -how circumstances may appear to be against him or her for the moment, -would not our skillfully woven suspense suffer a severe jolt? Of what -use would it be to fear for the safety of the trapped little girl when -a dogged confidence, gained by profitable experience in reading, would -suggest that she is due at the altar on page five and would inevitably -keep her appointment? Of what use would be taking seriously the -pugilistic encounters of the Man-Who-Can’t-Be-Knocked-Out? Why thrill -with anxiety over an overturned automobile when it is certain that the -hero pinned underneath it will have sustained nothing more serious than -a few scratches that must heal before the final sentence is completed? -What would become of all our tricks and ingenuity and inventiveness? -Would not this one convention of the invariably happy ending then -defeat all our efforts at creating suspense? And if that happened would -it not be the direst calamity to all we have worked for, to the entire -mechanism of our “perfect” story? - -The preceding paragraph is prophetic of what ultimately must happen. As -yet that day may be far off in the hazy distance, but when it comes the -philosophy of our short story must undergo a complete metamorphosis. -Its own glaring contradictions, if not external influences, must -ultimately bring that about. To preach Suspense as the highest law, -then kill it at its very inception by another law of the happy -ending is an absurdity that cannot long remain unapparent even to a -nine-year-old intelligence. - -Meantime the reaction noted in some quarters toward the invariably -unhappy ending is just as sinister an influence toward the rise of -another absurdity. Whether this reaction be sincere--as in the case -of those who have been fed with glucose fiction ad nauseam--or merely -fashionable--as in the case of most of the Left Wing of our present-day -average reading public--if crystallized and perpetuated as a dogma it -is bound to constitute a serious hindrance in the evolution of the -short story. Once and for all we must come to an acceptance of the -truth that there can be but one kind of an ending to a story--whether -happy or unhappy--and that is the logical one, an ending which is a -direct inevitable outgrowth of the story itself. No law can be made -that would apply to all stories; each story generates its own laws. -The question of repugnance or preferences of the reader does not -enter here at all. The question of cause and effect, of intelligent -probability gaged by a keen observation of the laws or lack-of-laws of -reality--this question alone must become paramount and decisive. - -It is true that the noblest literary works, from the dramas of Æschylus -to the present day, have all been tinged with sadness--Maupassant’s -definition of literature as being a mirror of life, proving a true -one. Also that other one--is it by Goethe?--that literature is the -conscience of the human race. In the world of men, with the dark -mystery of death as an ever-present certainty, thus sowing a sense of -the futility of all human aspirations and achievement in the hearts -of even the most aggressive of us; with a lurking consciousness of -insurmountable limitations besetting our fondest dreams; with a still -more pronounced consciousness that the maturing of dreams frequently -marks their decay, and almost always marks the thawing of their dewy -glitter--in such a world, literature, welling up from the depths of -inner consciousness, cannot help being tinged with sadness. In fact, -the vast bulk of the world’s literary masterpieces consists of -tragedies. The sooner this fundamental fact is woven into the fiber of -American fiction the sooner will American fiction become the mirror of -American life and the conscience of the American people. - -But this solemn historic consideration does not justify the adoption -of a rigid rule that an unhappy ending of a story is artistic and that -a happy one is always inartistic. Least of all could it be justified -in its application to the short story, which frequently deals with -but a single incident in the life of a character rather than with a -complete history. There are infinitely more probabilities of ultimate -defeat in a complete history than in a single experience. Death is -not always the price of an adventure, nor disillusionment that of an -undertaking. Conrad’s “Youth,” melancholy as it is with the breath of -finiteness of all our glorious epochs, has no tragic ending. The young -commander has dared through stress and storm and adversity, has pitted -the strength of his youth against that of the sea and has come out -victorious, glowing with the symbolic message: “Do or Die!” And though, -when he recounts the narrative of that first command of his, youth is -far behind him, he is filled with lyric memories of it far sweeter -than his distant exploit itself. Mary E. Wilkins Freeman’s “Revolt -of Mother” ends happily and yet logically and artistically. Perhaps -in her next encounter with her hard-hearted and hard-headed husband -Mother won’t be as successful, but in this one which Mrs. Freeman had -chosen to relate, she carries the day. Maupassant’s “Moonlight” ends -well. The old Abbé realizes that “God perhaps has made such nights -as this to clothe with his ideals the loves of men,” and the young -couple can henceforth love unmolested. James Branch Cabell’s “Wedding -Jest” ends happily, although satirically--the point of the story--not -a happy one by any means--being contained particularly in the ending. -An enumeration of all the great short stories that have happy endings -would make a paragraph of considerable length. - -From any technical point of view the unhappy ending, when canonized -into a convention, will defeat any skill and ingenuity or even natural -artistry in the maintenance of suspense. After a while readers will -learn that every story must end unhappily and will be on their guard. -Already the few periodicals that have made a convention of the -unconventional ending are suffering a depressing monotony. There really -is no reason for following the love illusions of the unsophisticated -heroine when it is certain that disillusionment awaits her in the -end. Nor is there reason for feeling elated over the success of our -hero when we know that it is temporary, that it is only a matter of -paragraphs or pages before this success will be turned into defeat. - -If then we arrive at the conclusion that neither the happy ending nor -the tragic ending is in itself an indication of artistry, but must be -considered in its relation to the story it ends, we arrive at a view -which is at once rational and simple--so simple, in fact, that it seems -banal to emphasize it. In the matter of endings we have been thinking -in terms of producing the greatest effect, totally ignoring their -inevitability as culminating points of given sets of plot influences. -We know that the end of a story marks an emphatic place which leaves -the greatest impression upon the reader’s mind; it is, rhetorically, a -strategic point, and therefore we concentrate all our surprises, our -jugglery, our uplift message and our disposition upon this point. We -want the reader to go away smiling, or pleasantly startled, or, if we -write for the conventionally unconventional publication, unpleasantly -satisfied. The fact that a writer after having set his characters in -motion and allowing them to act and react upon the various forces of -the plot, to mold and be molded, has no power over the ending other -than that of guiding the threads of his story--characters, motives -and circumstances--to the end they are logically bound for, is as yet -obscure among us. We are associating the ending with its impressions -upon the reader, with its gallery value--rather than with the soul -of the story. As Mr. Carl Van Doren, former literary editor of _The -Nation_ and now of _The Century_ has expressed it: “According to all -the codes of the more serious kinds of fiction, the unwillingness--or -the inability--to conduct a plot to its legitimate ending implies some -weakness in the artistic character.”[26] - -This weakness that Mr. Van Doren refers to in reality arises from -our very conception of the function of fiction and the motives that -govern its birth. In a majority of cases the prime motive for writing -a story is to obtain a check from a publisher; the dazzling figures -cited in our newspapers and writers’ magazines as the incomes of some -fictionists exert an irresistible appeal. The constant hammering upon -literature as a commodity which can be and is being produced as any -other commodity at such and such a price, the size being determined -upon its ability to perform the clownish function of supplying a laugh -or a thrill to the largest number of T. B. M.’s or T. B. W.’s, is -another influence responsible for this weakness. That fiction is a -medium for the expression of a writer’s reactions to his business of -living is a view that mighty few of our writers, editors, and literary -savants seem to hold. So that the fallacy of the happy ending, and of -the unhappy ending as well, is inevitably bound up with the larger -fallacy of mistaking the manufacture of stories for the function of -literature. - - - - -CHAPTER VII - -FORM AND SUBSTANCE - - -Jack London in his confessions of his struggle for recognition as a -writer gives this formula for success in literature: Health, Work, -and a Philosophy of Life. Health is necessary, of course, in order to -do any hard work, and in a world against which old Malthus railed, -nothing can be attained without hard work. But it is the value of the -third ingredient which is most often overlooked and the absence of -which is responsible for the failure of most of our literary output to -rise above the level of mediocrity. We have noted, in another place, -that Jack London himself, in the bulk of his production, failed to -strike more than an occasional deep and sincere chord, but it was not -because his ear was faulty; it was simply because his audience rejected -precisely the deep chord. - -Let it be understood that by a philosophy of life Jack London did not -refer to any definite view on economic reform or social regeneration. -Narrow, limited, prejudiced views have but little place in literature; -if presented by the hand of an artist, they may appeal for a short -time, but never for very long. Great writers there have been who were -not as actively engaged in the squabbles of the world as Jack London -was and who did not take definite sides in the skirmishes of any -generation but they have all had a philosophy of life none the less, -in that they have all had a broad, philosophic comprehension of the -basic laws which govern human life and actions; of causes and effects -conducive to human suffering and happiness; and of the reactions of -these basic laws upon the author himself so that he is able to present -them from a definite angle--his angle. - -It is the possession of this individual angle upon the everlasting -panorama of life and death which distinguishes the vital master from -the flabby mechanic. We might call it philosophy of life, independence -of mind, originality, idealism, or what not, in all cases it makes for -substance--the thing by which a work of art lives. - -No slight is intended on the value of form in literature. If the -appropriate masterful form clothes this vital substance, so much the -better, of course, but it is the substance that is the protoplasm. Form -follows fads and fashions, and is decidedly mortal; substance alone -illustrates the immutable law of the indestructibility of matter. With -all their beautiful rhetoric and genial humor, the Spectator and Tatler -papers of Addison and Steele are mildly entertaining dead matter today, -but the tragedies and comedies of the Bard of Avon are as appealing -today as three centuries ago, even though handicapped by a form no -longer in vogue. Dostoyevsky’s novels, to take a more modern example, -were written in a style as clumsy and uncouth as ever novels could be -written in, but their burning pages sear the souls of men who read -them. The gift of substance is in them--a fiery miracle, an Apocalypse. - -The one supremely outstanding feature in our American fiction is its -lack of substance. Some of us have the O. Henry style and some of us -have the Henry James style and still others have the Washington Irving -or the Poe style; some of us can plot and others can end a story with -a flourish; some possess a dazzling vocabulary and others are genii of -rhetoric--but how many have something sustaining to impart to a world -drowning in platitudes? How much of worth has our fiction added to the -world’s sum of comprehension of beauty, of truth? We have developed -schools and systems of teaching and learning how to say things; we -have bent every effort toward the evolving of a science of expression -only to find that we have been too busy expressing to acquire what to -express. American ethics has always been a point of national pride, but -we have never applied it to the art of talking brilliantly when one -has nothing to say. As George Macdonald once put it: “... If a man has -nothing to communicate, there is no reason why he should have a good -style, any more than why he should have a good purse without any money, -or a good scabbard without any sword.” - -Again, the acquisition of nobility of form is not to be discouraged, -but the possession of something to tell the world is the sublimest of -gifts, and gains the world’s everlasting gratitude; and the greatest -seeming anomaly in the conditions under which American literature is -produced is that this gift is not only rated at a discount but fought, -vilified, grappled with. The only way the gift can be acquired, if -it can, is through an insatiable interest in the stuff and forms of -life; but such interest leads to inquiry and inquiry leads to heresy; -venerable taboos are broken. The anomaly becomes a normal result of -an inferior conception of the rights and functions of literature. -Prejudices are placed above art; policies above truth; words above -meanings. - -Once, at a suffrage gathering, a young writer was introduced by a -friend to a famous writer whose encouragement the beginner desired. -At the end of the evening the friend asked the famous writer for his -impressions of the budding genius. “I have not read any of his work,” -the famous writer answered, “but I am afraid he has not the makings -of a genius. The way he snubbed the poor girl I introduced him to -merely because she is a salesgirl indicates that he lacks the voracious -interest in the human element which marks the true artist. How is he -ever going to talk Man when he doesn’t know Man?” - -Voracious interest--that’s the path that leads to the gift of -substance, to the “philosophy of life,” the original angle! Cæsar saw -before he conquered. And he had to come a long way before he could see. -But he wanted to see. And it is wanting to see that is the whip of -genius. Dickens walked the streets of London for hours, through rain -and fog and slush and shine, because he wanted to see it, all of it, -every nook and corner of it. Balzac tramped the length and breadth of -Paris, haunted parks and shops and drawing-rooms, because the human -comedy appealed to him. The Russian Kuprin dressed himself in a diver’s -suit and had himself lowered many fathoms into the Black Sea because he -wanted to experience the sensations of a diver. And Jack London circled -the globe because he wanted to see what it is like. - -A little class-room episode comes to mind. In the poetry class Carl -Sandburg came up for discussion. A few of his Chicago poems were read -when a fair would-be poet spoke up in protest. “I have lived in Chicago -all my life,” she said, “and have never seen the things Sandburg sees!” -But there was another student in the room, a very unobtrusive little -girl sitting somewhere in the back of the room, and she suddenly came -to her instructor’s rescue. “That’s why you are not Sandburg!” she -exclaimed.... - -The true artist is the perpetual explorer. He cannot invent the -substance of his work, but he can discover it in the life of nature -and his fellow-men. And the more he sees the more he learns to see, -for to be able to see the new and unexplored in the old and elemental -is the highest art in itself. A hunchback to a child in the streets is -an object to throw stones at, to a Victor Hugo he is a grand, heroic -figure, fierce and glorious in his pathetic grandeur. A typhoon to a -Chinese fisherman represents the wrath of his god for the omission of -a prayer or a sacrifice; to Joseph Conrad it symbolizes the majestic -resentment of the Sea itself against man’s desecration of its peace and -beauty and mystery. Only the American artist knows no symbols and is -warned against attempting to know. - -Our great cry has always been: “Acquire form!” Grammar, rhetoric, -metrics, technique--these have been the indispensable tools of our -writers. They still are. But having acquired them our writers find -they can fashion nothing beautiful, nothing lasting, nothing that -will weather the storms of time. For no tools, no matter how sharp or -perfect, can accomplish the feat of fashioning something out of vacuum. -The American story always has laid claims to style--but it hasn’t -lived. Writers have come and had their vogue and gone. Even years back -when style was more leisurely and rounded, when the badge of haste was -not upon it, Charles Dudley Warner remarked: “We may be sure that any -piece of literature which attracts only by some trick of style, however -it may blaze up for a day and startle the world with its flash, lacks -the element of endurance. We do not need much experience to tell us the -difference between a lamp and a Roman candle.” - -This remark can be elaborated on, explained, complemented. The truth -is that there can be no style without substance. These elements are -not separate entities; only superficially do they seem to be. How -much sweetness can a “sweet nothing” contain? How much beauty can a -work of “art” contain which has emptiness of thought and ugliness of -conception? How much truth can be embedded in a fundamental falsehood? -Every great poet has found the soul of his poem determining its form. -Great style grows from within--it is an off-shoot of great substance. -To the American writer this relationship has never been apparent; and -most of our critics, professing a lofty æstheticism from the shadows -of their academies, have never paid attention to it. Our literature -cannot boast the possession of a single lucid outline of this vital -relationship between form and substance such as the following from Remy -de Gourmont’s “Le Probleme du Style.” I wonder how many authors of -textbooks exhorting American would-be authors to learn the cabalistic -lore of expression have ever read this: - -“A new fact or a new idea is worth more than a fine phrase. A lovely -phrase is a lovely thing and so is a lovely flower. But their duration -is almost the same--a day, a century. Nothing dies more swiftly than a -style which does not rest upon the solidity of vigorous thinking. Such -a style shrivels like a stretched skin; it falls in a heap as ivy does -from the rotten tree that once gave it support.... - -“It is probably an error to attempt to distinguish between form and -substance.... There is no such thing as amorphous matter; all thought -has a limit, hence a form, since it is a partial representation of true -or possible, real or imaginary life. Substance engenders form exactly -as the tortoise and the oyster do the materials of their respective -shells.... - -“Form without a foundation, style without thought--what a poor thing it -is!... - -“If nothing lives in literature except by its style, that is because -works well thought out are invariably well written. But the converse is -not true. Style alone is nothing.... - -“The sign of the man in any intellectual work is the thought. The -thought _is_ the man. And style and thought are one.”[27] - -If we were candid enough the proper answer to make to this brilliant -Frenchman would be: “Who told you that literature is an ‘intellectual -work’?” But we are not candid enough. Only in our strictly professional -journals do we dare liken literature to cobbling or tin-smithing or -hod-carrying; in the official world, in our lectures and book-reviews, -we consider it an art and talk of Muses and Pegasus and all the -artistic divinities of Mount Olympus and Chillicothe. - -A simple confession will not be amiss here. This discussion has been -largely a plea for the man and woman who would find in literature, -and in the short story specifically, the relief of a burdened soul. -The influences that would withhold this relief are multitudinous and -powerful. The struggle is unequal and pathetic. But of the hundreds -of literary aspirants that have come to my personal notice only an -isolated individual here and there was blessed with any kind of a -burden. The vast multitude of souls were cheerfully lightweight -and unencumbered. These aspirants came to study technique so that -they might learn how to write salable stories, but they had no -stories to tell. Some of them believed they could become great story -writers because when at school they had received excellent marks -in composition; others claimed on more general grounds a gift of -expression and they wished to put it to practical use. That it was -necessary to have lived in order to write of life was a thought that -had never occurred to them. They were blissfully unaware of such a -necessity. They needed form, nothing else, and applied themselves -conscientiously toward its acquisition. The irony of the whole matter -is that they actually estimated their deficiency accurately: form was -what they wanted, and nothing else. After a while they began to sell. -In all cases the unhappy aspirants who were plagued with thoughts and -emotions have found it harder to sell, no matter how much excellence of -form they succeeded in acquiring. In the field of the American short -story, the “lightweights” have it, so far. - -It is true, of course, that even a lightweight must have something to -clothe with his all-potent form--be it a skeleton ever so rattling. But -that has been answered in Chapter IV on the Moving Pictures. There are -themes a-plenty, airy, optimistic, harmless themes that no respectable -editor, reader, or Board of Censorship can object to. They can be -adapted and readapted an infinity of times, provided each time a new -twist or a “different” trick is introduced. - -All our themes seem to have divided themselves into two grand classes: -Stereotyped themes out of which stories are made, and Life themes out -of which literature is made. The first class contains an abundance of -material that any one might have for the taking, but which to make -salable requires all the tricks of form that we have so flamboyantly -evolved to disguise its hackneyed origin. The second class contains all -the substances of existence that only those that feel their kinship -thereto can transmute into literature. All the style and form that -the science of writing can teach cannot hope to produce one breathing -story unless the theme is eloquent with this kinship. Such is the story -of genius--the story that lives and endures. Such a story may or may -not have mechanical values; it will captivate and thrill; ruffle and -soothe; make and destroy. Such a story will be found to have a theme -not chosen with an eye for gallery approval; not even because the -writer himself approves of it. One cannot approve or disapprove of the -stuff he is made of. One merely accepts it. After all there is only one -theme--inexhaustible--out of which genuine literature has always been -and always will be made, perhaps it is the simple theme of Tagore’s -court poet: “The theme of Krishna, the lover god, and Radha, the -beloved, the Eternal Man and the Eternal Woman, the sorrow that comes -from the beginning of time, and the joy without end.”[28] - - - - -CHAPTER VIII - -FINALE - - -There is more than a modicum of depression, then, in a contemplative -sweep of the literary product we are instrumental in creating. Even -the most complacent members in my profession must find it so. For -one thing, the very lack of variety in the finished product we so -painstakingly cultivate must occasionally become irksome, if nothing -more serious. Analyzing stories by a hundred different writers, both -successful and would-be, and all of these stories with one puny soul -must in the end become a very tiresome routine indeed. - -It is true that we are not masters of the situation. Who are we to set -up standards and direct the footsteps of the young toward them? We are -but the interpreters of existing standards and the formulators and -expositors of ways that lead to the meeting of the exaction imposed -by them. But if an uneasy thought sometimes, at dusk, buzzes into -our incautious ear that the existing standards lead to unregenerate -mediocrity, should we not pause and ask if perpetuating these standards -is for the good of our souls or even for the work we love (and a -great many of us really do love our work!)? Perhaps a revision of -our texts--if not a bonfire--might result in fewer stories but more -inspiring ones. Perhaps the demolition of magazine standards might -result in the birth of literary standards. As it is, should we not -face the truth that all the masters that have ever manipulated pen or -typewriter have disregarded our standards and set up new ones of their -own? They may not have gone to the extent of a Kipling who wrote to a -beginner that “No man’s advice is the least benefit in our business, -and I am a very busy man. Keep on trying until you either fail or -succeed.” They all have looked for and accepted intelligent advice of -one kind or another--from eminent contemporaries and from those that -had preceded them. But they have not slavishly copied and imitated. -They have not felt that any advice had the power of divine commandment. -No real artist could be expected to create anything in the environment -of the rubrics and inhibitions with which we have surrounded him. - -All the blame that can be heaped upon the public and our magazine -editors does not absolve the literary clergy from the share of harm -they have contributed to the existing state of the American short -story. The cheapest form of advertising and the most erudite and -conscientious of our textbooks combine in the creation of a peculiar -psychology that a story is some concoction that any one might learn to -make up by mere exertion. Here is a typical advertisement appearing on -the back page of a current magazine: - - HOW I MADE $350.00 ON ONE SHORT STORY And How I Learned To Write, In - Only a Few Evenings, Stories That Actually Sell Themselves. - -Then follows a full-page testimony of some one who has made a great -success of story-writing by spending the small sum of $5 on the course -advertised. The course itself was prepared by a leading professor -in a leading eastern university and whose name is well-known in the -literary world. And almost every important textbook on the subject -abounds in statements such as the following taken from one of the -most intelligent works: “the events which go to make up a fictional -plot are artificially arranged so as to bring about a particular -result,”[29] besprinkled with numerous analogies to the various trades -and professions and how long it takes for the average apprentice to -become an accomplished artizan. The psychology of tricks and twists and -points is foisted upon the writer, the reader, the editor. By constant -repetition we ourselves begin to acquire it, if we had it not when we -started.... - -And yet this short volume is not wholly pessimistic. I would not want -to leave that impression. For as already stated there have always been -writers with a real touch of divine afflatus who have never paid -any attention either to our psychology or to our tricks, or to our -inhibitions. “Every fine artist in American fiction will be seen to -have discarded both the technical and moral pattern of the magazine -tradition and to have developed one of his own.”[30] And the number of -these heretics is growing--much faster than some of us are aware. They -suffer obscurity and often poverty as all great heretics always have -suffered, but they have the fortitude of their calling. Let us listen -to the confession of one of them: - - “... However, you know that the short-story form has become - among us very much what I call corrupt. Publishers of short - stories sought what they called the story with a kick in it. Plots - for short stories were found and about these plots our writers - sought to hang a semblance of reality to life. The plot, however, - being uppermost in the writers’ minds, what we got was a snappy, - entertaining, artificial thing, forgotten completely an hour after - it was read. - - “Perhaps because of a native laziness, I found myself unable to - think up plots. To try to do so bored me unspeakably. On the other - hand, there were all about me human beings living their lives and - in the process of doing so creating drama.... - - “I have tried to clutch at it and reproduce in writing some of that - drama....”[31] - -When the problem involved is what to tell, the sharpening of the -faculty of seeing what is worth while, the problem of how to tell -becomes of secondary importance. In fact the same literary heretic -believes that “An impulse needs but be strong enough to break through -the lack of technical training ... technical training might well -destroy the impulse....”[32] - -Along with the author of “Winesburg, Ohio,” and “The Triumph of the -Egg,” there are a host of other writers freshly reacting to life -and honestly striving to embody their reactions into stories. It is -strange to us, accustomed as we are to clever artificiality, it is even -grotesque--this simplicity, naturalness, and daring, but it marks the -birth of the American short story--that colorful short form which is -destined to become the most perfect artistic expression of our national -life. After all, to the true artist the public is no problem, it being -composed primarily of himself alone. As Sherwood Anderson expressed -it in another passage of the interview quoted above: “I would like a -little to understand myself in this mixup, and I am writing with that -end in view.” The curse of catering to the public has been a fallacy as -great as that of our technique; we have assumed that fiction is made to -order for a public, just as we have taught that technique comes first -and story substance next. The great writers have all come before their -public and have had to wait for the public to catch up with them, but -if they hadn’t come first the public would never have caught up. We -in America have always striven to give the public what it has wanted, -but even in America the time is fast coming when the gracious public -will be inquiring what stories our potent writers have to tell. But -not until our writers realize fully that “The public is composed of -numerous groups crying out: Console me, amuse me, sadden me, touch me, -make me dream, laugh, shudder, weep, think. But the fine spirit says -to the artist: Make something beautiful in the form that suits you, -according to your personal temperament.”[33] This fine spirit is now -becoming evident; it is working its way to the surface. - -In this period of awakening, of the real birth of American literature, -the genuine educator, always an open-minded student, can do no better -than revaluate all his acceptances, all his hardened dogmas, all -his hereditary literary and educational truths. If he is to help -the confused multitude, baffled by a sudden consciousness of the -phenomena of existence, to literary self-expression, he must first -realize that no formulas are of any avail in the crises of life and -therefore are of no avail in literature, the artistic emanation or -transmutation of life. He must stimulate thought and independence of -thought--even to the point of experimentation--for in such ways have -all great contributions to the world’s cultural treasury been made. He -must cultivate a genuine love of literature rather than of its usual -incentive, the emoluments involved, whatever they be, and a critical -appreciation of literary values. Thus he may become a positive force in -the chariot of our literary progress--a leader, a driver, a discoverer. - - - - -CHAPTER IX - -EFFECT - - -Self-flattery is indigenous to man. We like to flatter ourselves that -our musings produce a desirable effect but we do not often know the -complexion of this effect. What, for instance, shall it be in the -case of serious-minded men and women interested in creating short -stories and in the aspect of our literary field generally who have read -sympathetically the preceding pages? If books are stimuli what shall -this particular reaction be? - -A few suggestions may not be amiss. They are in a measure a -recapitulation of the thoughts expressed, but I like to think of them -as formulated by my ideal reader as his more or less conscious artistic -credo: - -1. I believe that the short story is first of all a form of literature, -not merely an article of manufacture. - -2. Literature is a form of self-expression. I am a living entity, -sensitive to the play and interplay of forces in and all about me. Life -in the form of man, of institutions, of passions and ideas affects me -and I would reproduce and interpret it. I would clarify it to myself; -I would create for the love of creating, for the beauty of it, for the -gratification of the creative urge within me. - -3. I recognize no plots that are not derived from the life which I -know, which is in and about me; nor any characters which are not -derived from and tested by that life. - -4. In all my work I have a desire to be truthful, rather than merely -clever; simple rather than pretentious; natural rather than surprising. -I would voice no thought nor emotion which is alien to my mind and -temperament. - -5. The genuineness of a view or an emotion is its justification. Truth -and spontaneity are more to me than commercial artifice and success. -There is no shame in failure except in so far as it implies a departure -from standards of artistic honesty. - -6. I recognize no taboos. Every phase of life is a worthy theme; every -experience known to man is a worthy plot. Things which have interested -me have interested other people and I seek to communicate my personal -vision to the world. I recognize no valid reason for withholding any -part of my vision merely because it may prove unpleasant, uncustomary -or unprofitable to some reader. I do not force him to read my work. - -7. Nor do I recognize that I have any right, for any reason whatsoever, -to color the stuff of life, the reality of which I write. The measure -of my success is the measure in which I can make my reality the -reality of those who would read me. - -8. The standard of my opinions and emotions is contained within me. -I refuse to modify them, to render them less objectionable, or more -innocuous, or more in conformity with the standard of the moving -pictures or the specifications of any editor, critic, teacher or good -friend. - -9. I recognize no subject which is rooted in life as either moral -or immoral. Every phase of existence is a legitimate theme for the -artist, and its morality or immorality is a matter of the reader’s own -interpretation. - -10. I am not afraid of being either pessimistic or optimistic. My moods -and ideas are my own and will not be changed to suit the buyer. - -11. I am not afraid of being either radical or conservative, depressive -or “exhilarating,” religious or agnostic, constructive or destructive. -The fearless presentation of one’s honest views is a virtue in itself. - -12. I have no fear of displeasing any one, of displeasing even a -majority of readers, editors, critics, citizens. I have faith that -there is always a fearless minority willing to hear an honest word; -that there are always some avenues for the transmission of the -independent vision. Frequently this minority in time grows to a -majority--and another rebellious minority takes its place. - -13. I believe that all technique is but a means toward effective -expression. No tricks are of any value in themselves. No puzzles or -jugglings with life’s experiences are of any avail, and no technique -is worthy of art except in so far as it furthers clarification and -artistic presentation of my message. - -14. I believe that all the instruction I can get can only be in the way -of developing facility of expression. No teacher or textbook can teach -me the stuff out of which literature is made. - -15. I believe that style is “of the man himself,” that it comes from -within, that no amount of imitation of O. Henry can give me O. Henry’s -cleverness, and that no amount of style, even my own, can cover a lack -of substance. - -16. There is only one ending that my story can have. It may be happy or -unhappy or merely logical. Every problem imposes its own solution. I -can dictate no dénouement, for the characters involved work out their -own destiny acceptable to them or to the inevitability of their problem. - -17. I believe that if I am myself I am original. My life is different -from the life of any one else. Manufacturing startling or spectacular -originality is impossible. There is only one theme at bottom of all -stories and that is Life. It is only the way I look at it which you do -not know. - -18. Finally I believe that each artist after all works in his own way. -My way may be as good as the ways of other writers and will surely -suit my moods and my thoughts better. Each of us in his own way merely -tries to state and to clarify the tragedy and comedy, the ugliness and -the beauty of the things he knows and lives and feels. - -19. The short story is but another medium for the expression of my -reaction to the business of living. I refuse to be a clown entertaining -the gallery. - -20. If I depart from this credo and write what commercial policy -may dictate rather than my artistic self I shall not be afraid to -acknowledge the inferior character of the product rather than label it -as literature. My conscience is no coward, even in defeat. - - -THE END - - - - -INDEX - - - -Addison, Joseph, 115. - -Ade, George, 9. - -_Admirable Crichton, The_, 77. - -Aeschylus, 109. - -_American Magazine, The_, 70, 71. - -Anderson, Sherwood, 16, 17, 79, 81, 128, 129; _The Other Woman_, 81. - -_Atheist’s Mass, An_, 85, 86. - - -Balzac, Honoré, de, 85, 86, 118; _An Atheist’s Mass_, 85, 86. - -Barnes, Djuna, 17. - -Barrie, J. M., 77. - -Bates, Arlo, 2. - -_Beyond the Horizon_, 64. - -Bierce, Ambrose, 9. - -Brandes, Georg, 87. - -Brooks, Van Wyck, 73. - -Brown, Alice, 17. - -Butler, Ellis Parker, 8. - - -Cabell, James Branch, 17, 79; _The Wedding Jest_, 111. - -Clay, Bertha M., 79. - -Chambers, Robert W., 9. - -Chatterton, Thomas, 6. - -Chekhov, Anton, 13, 26, 74, 99; _Ward No. 6_, 33. - -Chester, George Randolph, 33. - -Chwang-Tse, 22, 23. - -Cohen, Octavus Roy, 16. - -Conrad, Joseph, 27, 103, 119; _Youth_, 27, 110. - -Crane, Frank, 34, 71, 87. - - -D’Annunzio, Gabrielle, 74. - -Davis, Richard Harding, 33. - -Daudet, Alphonse, 78. - -_Dial, The_, 69. - -Dickens, Charles, 51, 118. - -Dostoyevski, Fyodor, 74, 116. - -Dreiser, Theodore, 17, 34, 79, 82; _The Lost Phoebe_, 34. - - -Edwards, Jonathan, 85. - -Emerson, Ralph Waldo, 62. - -Esenwein, J. Berg, 127; _Writing the Photoplay_, 58, 90; _Writing the -Short Story_, 127. - - -_Fall of the House of Usher, The_, 14, 15. - -Flaubert, Gustave, 86; _Madame Bovary_, 86. - -_Four Million, The_, 35, 36, 37, 38, 39, 40. - -Frank, Waldo, 8, 17. - -Freeman, Mary E. Wilkins, 33, 110; _The Revolt of Mother_, 33, 110, 111. - - -Gerould, Katharine Fullerton, 44. - -Glaspell, Susan, 17. - -Gorki, Maxim, 38, 74; _Her Lover_, 38. - -Gourmont, Remy de, 120, 121; _Le Probleme du Style_, 120, 121. - -Griffith, David Wark, 105, 106. - - -Hall, Holworthy, 16. - -Hamsun, Knut, 5. - -Hardy, Thomas, 64. - -_Harper’s Magazine_, 69. - -Harte, Bret, 103. - -Hawthorne, Nathaniel, 65. - -Hearn, Lafcadio, 11. - -Hecht, Ben, 17. - -_Her Lover_, 38. - -Hergesheimer, Joseph, 5, 8; _Java Head_, 23. - -Howells, William Dean, 15; _Great Modern American Stories_, 34. - -Hugo, Victor, 119. - -_Hungry Hearts_, 34. - -Hurst, Fannie, 5. - - -_In the Moonlight_, 33, 111. - -Irving, Washington, 116. - - -James, Henry, 116. - -_Java Head_, 23. - -Jessup, Alexander, 44. - -_John Ferguson_, 64. - -Johnston, William, 35, 41, 42. - - -Kelland, Clarence Budington, 33. - -Kipling, Rudyard, 4, 26, 103, 126; _Without Benefit of Clergy_, 33. - -Kling, Joseph, 32. - -Kuprin, Ivan, 118. - - -Lawrence, D. H., 74. - -Leeds, Arthur, 56. - -Lewisohn, Ludwig, 23, 24. - -_Literary Digest_, The, 105. - -_Little Review, The_, 16, 69, 81. - -London, Jack, 4, 7, 8, 9, 41, 103, 114, 115, 118; _Martin Eden_, 4. - -_Lost Phoebe, The_, 34. - - -McCardell, Roy L., 55. - -Macdonald, George, 116. - -_Madame Bovary_, 86. - -Maeterlink, Maurice, 74. - -Malthus, 114. - -Marden, Orison Swett, 34. - -_Markheim_, 14, 15. - -_Martin Eden_, 4. - -Masefield, John, 4. - -Mason, Walt, 34. - -Mather, Cotton, 85. - -Matthews, Brander, 33. - -Maupassant, Guy de, 14, 15, 26, 33, 103, 109, 111, 130; _Solitude_, 14, -15; _In the Moonlight_, 33, 111. - -Mencken, H. L., 47. - - -_Nation, The_, 24, 112, 113, 128. - -_New Success, The_, 69. - - -O’Brien, Edward J., 15; _Best Short Stories of 1920_, 81, 97; _Best -Short Stories of 1919_, 97. - -O. Henry, 9, 22, 26, 29, 30, 31, 32, 35, 41, 42, 43, 44, 45, 46, 60, -116, 135; _The Four Million_, 35, 36, 37, 38, 39, 40. - -_Our America_, 8. - -_Our Short Story Writers_, 9, 39. - - -_Pagan, The_, 16, 32. - -_Passing of King Arthur, The_, 6. - -Patee, Fred Lewis, 44. - -_People’s Favorite Magazine_, 87. - -Poe, Edgar Allan, 14, 15, 26, 42, 74, 102, 116; _The Fall of the House -of Usher_, 14, 15. - -Pollock, Channing, 51. - -Porter, William Sidney (See “O. Henry”). - -_Probleme du Style, Le_, 121. - - -_Revolt of Mother, The_, 33, 110, 111. - -Rinehart, Mary Roberts, 33. - -Robbins, E. M., 54. - - -Sandburg, Carl, 118. - -_Sapho_, 78. - -_Saturday Evening Post, The_, 69, 71. - -_Seven Arts, The_, 7, 84. - -Shakespeare, 60, 116. - -_Smart Set, The_, 69. - -_Solitude_, 14, 15. - -Spingarn, Joel Elias, 83. - -Steele, Richard, 115. - -Stevenson, Robert Louis, 14, 26; _Markheim_, 14, 15. - - -Tagore, Rabindranath, 124. - -_Tatler, The_, 115. - -_Times, The New York_, 45. - -_Triumph of the Egg, The_, 129. - -Twain, Mark, 7, 41. - - -Van Doren, Carl, 112, 113. - -Villon, François, 6. - - -Walter, Eugene, 60. - -_Ward No. 6_, 33. - -Warner, Charles Dudley, 120. - -_Wedding Jest, The_, 111. - -Wells, H. G., 99. - -Whitman, Walt, 82, 99. - -Williams, Blanche Colton, 9, 39. - -_Winesburg, Ohio_, 129. - -_Without Benefit of Clergy_, 33. - -Witwer, H. C., 8, 65. - -_Writer’s Monthly, The_, 56, 71. - -_Writing the Photoplay_, 58, 90. - -_Writing the Short Story_, 127. - - -Yezierska, Anzia, 34; _Hungry Hearts_, 34. - -_Youth_, 27, 110. - - -Zola, Emile, 74. - - - -FOOTNOTES: - -[1] _Our America_, by Waldo Frank. - -[2] _Our Short Story Writers_, by Blanche Colton Williams, PH.D. - -[3] _The Case of “John Hawthorne,”_ Ludwig Lewisohn, _The Nation_, -February 16, 1921. - -[4] Joseph Kling, editor of _The Pagan_, in symposium appended to “The -Best College Short stories.” The Stratford Company. - -[5] Both of these stories are to be found in William Dean Howells’ -“Great Modern American Stories: An Anthology.” Boni & Liveright. - -[6] Houghton, Mifflin Co. - -[7] The Bookman, February 1921. - -[8] See “Best Russian Short Stories,” Modern Library. - -[9] “Our Short Story Writers.” Moffat, Yard and Company. - -[10] Fred Lewis Patee in _The Cambridge History of American -Literature_, Vol. II, p. 394. I find that Mr. Alexander Jessup has -drawn on the same source on O. Henry in his Introduction to “The Best -American Humorous Stories,” Modern Library. - -[11] Introduction to Ibsen’s “Master Builder, Etc.,” Modern Library. - -[12] _Photoplay Magazine_, August, 1919. - -[13] E. M. Robbins, in the 1919 Year Book issued by _Camera_. - -[14] Arthur Leeds in _The Writer’s Monthly_, April, 1919. - -[15] Arthur Leeds in _The Writer’s Monthly_, May, 1920. - -[16] _Writing the Photoplay_, Esenwein and Leeds. - -[17] _Ibid._ - -[18] Dr. Frank Crane to the Literary Novice, An Interview. _Writer’s -Monthly_, January, 1921. - -[19] _Letters and Leadership._ - -[20] _Little Review_, May-June, 1920. Also included in E. J. O’Brien’s -“Best Short Stories of 1920,” Small, Maynard & Company, and in -Anderson’s “The Triumph of the Egg.” B. W. Huebsch. - -[21] Joel Elias Spingarn, “The Seven Arts and The Seven Confusions,” -_Seven Arts_, March, 1917. - -[22] George Brandes, _On Reading_. - -[23] “All Else Will Pass,” _People’s Favorite Magazine_, January, 1921. - -[24] _Writing the Photoplay_, Esenwein & Leeds. - -[25] _Literary Digest_, May 14, 1921. - -[26] “Booth Tarkington,” _The Nation_, February 9, 1921. - -[27] From Ludwig Lewisohn’s translation in “A Modern Book of -Criticism.” Boni & Liveright. - -[28] “The Victory,” in _Hungry Stones and Other Stories_. - -[29] _Writing the Short Story_, by J. Berg Esenwein, A.M., Lit.D. - -[30] Editorial Reviewer in _The Nation_. - -[31] Sherwood Anderson in an interview for Brentano’s _Book Chat_. - -[32] Sherwood Anderson advertising an exhibition of his paintings in -the _Little Review_. - -[33] Guy de Maupassant, in his preface to _Pierre et Jean_. - - - - -Corrections - -The first line indicates the original, the second the correction. - -p. 1 - - There as so many stories afloat - There are so many stories afloat - -p. 105 - - where others have made scanty half-millons - where others have made scanty half-millions - -p. 124 - - it will captivate and thrill; ruffle annd soothe; - it will captivate and thrill; ruffle and soothe; - -p. 126 - - and accepted intelligent advice of one kind or another--from eniment - and accepted intelligent advice of one kind or another--from eminent - -p. 133 - - Truth and spontaniety are more to me than commercial artifice and - success. - Truth and spontaneity are more to me than commercial artifice and - success. - -p. 134 - - I have no fear of displeasing ony one, - I have no fear of displeasing any one, - -*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SHORT STORY-WRITING: AN ART OR -A TRADE? *** - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the -United States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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