NOVELISTS OF TO-DAY.

Otago Witness, Issue 3775, 20 July 1926, Page 67

NOVELISTS OF TO-DAY.

One now and then sees it prognosticated that reading will decline owing to scientific inventions which enable people to obtain information and amusement through other mediums than the printed page. The picture theatre is already a formidable rival to the fireside and a book, and it is predicted that “listening' in’* will in the future largely supersede both attendance at oral lectures and reading. Also modern rapid means of locomotion are lessening the need for books as a means of passing away time on a journey. People cannot read in motor cars, and railway journeys occupy less time than formerly. It may be granted that people are in many ways less dependent on books than they were in the middle of last century, while there is a great deal in modern life unfavourable both to the relish for quiet pursuits and to the mental concentration requisite for real delight in reading. But at present, certainly, the output of books continues to increase rapidly; fiction, of course, being far more numerously represented than any other class of literature. A copy of every book published in Britain is preserved in the British Museum, and one would suppose that before long it will be necessary to enlarge the storing accommodation to find room for the continuous supply of books. What loads of literaty lumber of all descriptions must there be hoarded—books that had little if any value at any time, a much greater number that were useful or pleasing in their day, but are now made valueless by advanced knowledge and changes in taste, and also very many of permanent value. But if enormous numbers of books are published each year, very many more fail to find a publisher, and this applies especially to fiction, which attracts by far the greater number of literary aspirants. So very many people think they can write a story, and hope to make money and fame by doing so; but the greater number are doomed to disappointment. Lately I read some publisher’s statement that only 2 per cent, of the stories submitted to his firm were accepted! Rather discouraging to the literary novice, isn’t it? Of course, some of the stories rejected by that particular firm might win publication elsewhere, but by far the greater number would never see the light. And no great loss; it might be just as well if a great deal of the fiction that is published had shared the same fate. But no doubt many of the unsuccessful books would, if judged by sound standards of criticism, be quite as good or no worse than much of w r liat is published. A publisher has to consider, not his own tastes, but the tastes of the majority of the reading public. Literature, like everything else to-day, is under the rule of the majority, and majority rule makes for mediocrity in most things—certainly *in literature. Then publishers, though they employ good readers., are liable to make mistakes. There are several instances of a famous book having been refused by one or several publishers before it found acceptance. A strikingly original book may be refused as certain to fail to find readers, whereas when a publisher with more insight or daring brings it out it wins appreciation from discerning readers, and perhaps proves a “best seller.” So I would say to any young or inexperienced writer who has had a story refused: if you feel that there is good stuff in your book, and if you can get your own judgment fortified by that of an impartial person possessing literary knowledge, keep on trying. The next publisher may be favourable.

But I would also warn literary novices not to be over-sanguine, and not to sacrifice anything of real value in your life on the very small chance of winning success as a writer. If you feel you must write, if you have something to say which you can believe the world, or a few people in it, will be the better for hearing, that is a different matter. But because you can put a story together or have some turn for rhyming, and perhaps have got your efforts accepted by local papers or awarded prizes at competitions, do not conclude that you have the makings of a great novelist or poet, and that your success is assured. Consider that there are thousands, tens of thousands, possessing similar gifts and aims to yours. The competition is keen in literature, and necessarily the prizes are few. And consider that it is very much better to be doing good work in business, teaching, or other calling or in the home than to be scraping an insecure livelihood by turning out indifferent fiction. into an oversupplied market.

I cannot say how the number of professional women writers of fiction compares with the number of men; but, however it may be with production, women are by far the larger consumers of fiction, and it is mainly they who keep the circulating libraries going. Most men, indeed, enjoy a good story of one kind or other, and there are several novelists whose works are read almost exclusively by men. Nat Gould and Joseph Conrad, two writers at opposite ends of the literary scale, are examples of men’s novelists. But very few men achieve the reading of a novel a day as many women do. They have not the time for it, and if they are much of readers they are likely to read other classes of literature; whereas very many women read nothing but fiction. If their reading makes their lives

pleasanter and rests and refreshes their minds and nerves, one cannot find fault; each person must decide for himself or herself how to spend leisure and find enjoyment. But I think that many girls and women are really doing thAnselves a wrong in not exploring other literary fields than fiction and in devouring fiction so largely and uncritically. They would enjoy a good novel all the more taken in alternation with other books —memoirs, biography, travels, essays,—many of which are bright and entertaining as any novel. But fiction will always appeal very strongly to most people, and particularly to women, who are more personal in their outlook than men. Human life must be the thing most interesting to men and women, and the novel gives concrete form to human life, whereas books on social subjects and history deal with it in a more general way. And then the fiction writer can select and combine, make his pictures of life more brightly coloured than life as his readers know it, and after bringing his characters through trouble enough to provide emotional interest can make them happy in the end. The romancer does this, painting life rather as he thinks it ought to be than as it is; and very many writers who are not romantic in the special sense, but deal with ordinary life and characters, prefer the happy ending. They know it is the most popular; it satisfies a natural craving of the human heart. Modern writers who consider themselves realists, on the other hand, usually prefer unhappy endings, and delight in painting human nature in the most unattractive colours. Both happy and unhappy endings may be in accordance with natural truth; all depends on the writer’s ment. The serious reader of fiction wants it to conform to the laws of life as we know it; not to treat life sentimentally, but illumine it, and enable us to understand our fellow-men and women better.

But many who read novels for pastime do not want them to follow life too exactly. The great naturalist Charles Darwin was one of these. In the latter part of his life it was his chief recreation to read novels or have them read to him. He could enjoy any story, lie said, so long as it was passably written, but it must have a happy ending. He felt so strongly on this point that lie said it should be made a penal offence to end a novel unhappily. There was enough sadness in real life, and the novelist should help people to escape from it. In Darwin’s day there was not much fiction published drawing gross and sordid pictures of life and upholding immorality, but if he were living now I am sure that he would condemn it even more strongly than harrowing or depressing fiction. The good novel is not of one kind. Novels may well be as various as human life itself. But there must be selection and arrangement. The whole of a life cannot be put into a novel; even the acts and thoughts of a day cannot. But some writers of to-da.v aim nt crowding everything in, and usually produce something very dull to me ordinary reader. And studies of the abnormal have no place in which should deal with normal human life. Normal human life is surely rich enough in variety to suffice the literary artist. And it should be treated in •such a way as to raise rather than lower our ideas of human nature and the value of life. It is a sad pity that so many of the cleverest women novelists of today prefer to represent the lowest aspects of human nature, and even abnormalities that come within the province of the physician and scientist, but are wholly outside, that of the artist.