John Galsworthy

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Joseph Conrad

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SOURCE: A letter to John Galsworthy in 1901, The Life and Letters of John Galsworthy, by H. V. Marrot, Charles Scribner's Sons, 1936, pp. 129-30.

[Conrad was born and raised in Poland and later resided in England. A major novelist, he is considered an innovator of novel structure as well as one of the finest stylists of modern English literature. In the following letter, originally written in 1901, he critiques A Man of Devon and suggests that Galsworthy should regard his characters with more skepticism.]

11th Nov. 1901.

DEAREST JACK,—I didn't write about the book before, first because Jess had it—and she reads slowly—and then I had at last some proofs of mine—a whole batch—which it took me several days to correct. Nevertheless I've read the book twice—watching the effect of it impersonally during the second reading—trying to ponder upon its reception by the public and discover the grounds of general success—or the reverse.

There is a certain caution of touch which will militate against popularity. After all, to please the public (if one isn't a sugary imbecile or an inflated fraud) one must handle one's subject intimately. Mere intimacy with the subject won't do. And conviction is found (for others, not for the author) only in certain contradictions and irrelevancies to the general conception of character (or characters) and of the subject. Say what you like the man lives in his eccentricities (so called) alone. They give a vigour to his personality which mere consistency can never do. One must explore deep and believe the incredible to find the few particles of truth floating in an ocean of insignificance. And before all one must divest oneself of every particle of respect for one's characters. You are really most profound and attain the greatest art in handling the people you do not respect. For instance the minor characters in [Villa Rubein]. And in this volume I am bound to recognize that Forsythe (sic) is the best. I recognize this with a certain reluctance because indubitably there is more beauty (and more felicity of style too) in the [Man of Devon]. The story of the mine shows best your strength and your weakness. There is hardly a word I would have changed; there are things in it I would give a pound of my flesh to have written. Honestly—there are; and your mine manager remains unconvincing because he is too confoundingly perfect in his very imperfections. The fact is you want more scepticism at the very foundation of your work. Scepticism, the tonic of minds, the tonic of life, the agent of truth—the way of art and salvation. In a book you should love the idea and be scrupulously faithful to your conception of life. There lies the honour of the writer, not in the fidelity to his personages. You must never allow them to decoy you out of yourself. As against your people you must preserve an attitude of perfect indifference—the part of creative power. A creator must be indifferent; because directly the "Fiat" has issued from his lips there are the creatures made in his image that'll try to drag him down from his eminence—and belittle him by their worship. Your attitude to them should be purely intellectual, more independent, freer, less rigorous than it is. You seem for their sake to hug your conceptions of right and wrong too closely. There is exquisite atmosphere in your tales. What they want now is more air.

You may wonder why I write you these generalities. But first of all in the matters of technique, where your advance has been phenomenal and which has almost (if not quite) reached the point of crystallization, we have talked so much and so variously that I could tell you now nothing that you have not heard already. And secondly, these considerations are not so general as they look. They are even particular in as much that they have been inspired by the examination of your work as a whole. I have looked into all the volumes; and this—put briefly, imperfectly, and obscurely—is what they suggested to me.

That the man who has written once the Four Winds has written now the M of D volume is a source of infinite gratification to me. It vindicates my insight, my opinion, my judgment—and it satisfies my affection for you—in whom I believed and am believing. Because that is the point: I am believing. You've gone now beyond the point where I could be of any use to you otherwise than just by my belief. It is if anything firmer than ever before—whether my remarks above find their way to your conviction or not. You may disagree with what I said here but in our main convictions we are at one.

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