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I would have been； without doubt； saddened； for in this world
where the journalists read the signs of the sky； and the wind of
heaven itself； blowing where it listeth； does so under the
prophetical management of the meteorological office； but where
the secret of human hearts cannot be captured by prying or
praying； it was infinitely more likely that the sanest of my
friends should nurse the germ of incipient madness than that I
should turn into a writer of tales。
To survey with wonder the changes of one's own self is a
fascinating pursuit for idle hours。 The field is so wide； the
surprises so varied； the subject so full of unprofitable but
curious hints as to the work of unseen forces； that one does not
weary easily of it。 I am not speaking here of megalomaniacs who
rest uneasy under the crown of their unbounded conceitwho
really never rest in this world； and when out of it go on
fretting and fuming on the straitened circumstances of their last
habitation； where all men must lie in obscure equality。 Neither
am I thinking of those ambitious minds who； always looking
forward to some aim of aggrandizement； can spare no time for a
detached； impersonal glance upon them selves。
And that's a pity。 They are unlucky。 These two kinds； together
with the much larger band of the totally unimaginative； of those
unfortunate beings in whose empty and unseeing gaze （as a great
French writer has put it） 〃the whole universe vanishes into blank
nothingness；〃 miss； perhaps； the true task of us men whose day is
short on this earth； the abode of conflicting opinions。 The
ethical view of the universe involves us at last in so many cruel
and absurd contradictions； where the last vestiges of faith；
hope； charity； and even of reason itself； seem ready to perish；
that I have come to suspect that the aim of creation cannot be
ethical at all。 I would fondly believe that its object is purely
spectacular： a spectacle for awe； love； adoration； or hate； if
you like； but in this viewand in this view alonenever for
despair！ Those visions； delicious or poignant； are a moral end
in themselves。 The rest is our affairthe laughter； the tears；
the tenderness； the indignation； the high tranquillity of a
steeled heart； the detached curiosity of a subtle mindthat's
our affair！ And the unwearied self…forgetful attention to every
phase of the living universe reflected in our consciousness may
be our appointed task on this eartha task in which fate has
perhaps engaged nothing of us except our conscience； gifted with
a voice in order to bear true testimony to the visible wonder；
the haunting terror； the infinite passion； and the illimitable
serenity； to the supreme law and the abiding mystery of the
sublime spectacle。
Chi lo sa？ It may be true。 In this view there is room for every
religion except for the inverted creed of impiety； the mask and
cloak of arid despair； for every joy and every sorrow； for every
fair dream； for every charitable hope。 The great aim is to
remain true to the emotions called out of the deep encircled by
the firmament of stars； whose infinite numbers and awful
distances may move us to laughter or tears （was it the Walrus or
the Carpenter； in the poem； who 〃wept to see such quantities of
sand〃？）； or； again； to a properly steeled heart； may matter
nothing at all。
The casual quotation； which had suggested itself out of a poem
full of merit； leads me to remark that in the conception of a
purely spectacular universe； where inspiration of every sort has
a rational existence； the artist of every kind finds a natural
place； and among them the poet as the seer par excellence。 Even
the writer of prose； who in his less noble and more toilsome task
should be a man with the steeled heart； is worthy of a place；
providing he looks on with undimmed eyes and keeps laughter out
of his voice； let who will laugh or cry。 Yes！ Even he； the
prose artist of fiction； which after all is but truth often
dragged out of a well and clothed in the painted robe of imagined
phraseseven he has his place among kings； demagogues； priests；
charlatans； dukes； giraffes； cabinet ministers； Fabians；
bricklayers； apostles； ants； scientists； Kafirs； soldiers；
sailors； elephants； lawyers； dandies； microbes； and
constellations of a universe whose amazing spectacle is a moral
end in itself。
Here I perceive （without speaking offense） the reader assuming a
subtle expression； as if the cat were out of the bag。 I take the
novelist's freedom to observe the reader's mind formulating the
exclamation： 〃That's it！ The fellow talks pro domo。〃
Indeed it was not the intention！ When I shouldered the bag I was
not aware of the cat inside。 But； after all； why not？ The fair
courtyards of the House of Art are thronged by many humble
retainers。 And there is no retainer so devoted as he who is
allowed to sit on the doorstep。 The fellows who have got inside
are apt to think too much of themselves。 This last remark； I beg
to state； is not malicious within the definition of the law of
libel。 It's fair comment on a matter of public interest。 But
never mind。 Pro domo。 So be it。 For his house tant que vous
voudrez。 And yet in truth I was by no means anxious to justify
my existence。 The attempt would have been not only needless and
absurd； but almost inconceivable； in a purely spectacular
universe； where no such disagreeable necessity can possibly
arise。 It is sufficient for me to say （and I am saying it at
some length in these pages）： J'ai vecu。 I have existed； obscure
among the wonders and terrors of my time； as the Abbe Sieyes； the
original utterer of the quoted words； had managed to exist
through the violences； the crimes； and the enthusiasms of the
French Revolution。 J'ai vecu； as I apprehend most of us manage
to exist； missing all along the varied forms of destruction by a
hair's…breadth； saving my body； that's clear； and perhaps my soul
also； but not without some damage here and there to the fine edge
of my conscience； that heirloom of the ages； of the race； of the
group； of the family； colourable and plastic； fashioned by the
words； the looks； the acts； and even by the silences and
abstentions surrounding one's childhood； tinged in a complete
scheme of delicate shades and crude colours by the inherited
traditions； beliefs； or prejudicesunaccountable； despotic；
persuasive； and often； in its texture； romantic。
And often romantic！ 。 。 。 The matter in hand； however； is to
keep these reminiscences from turning into confessions； a form of
literary activity discredited by Jean Jacques Rousseau on account
of the extreme thoroughness he brought to the work of justifying
his own existence； for that such was his purpose is palpably；
even grossly； visible to an unprejudiced eye。 But then； you see；
the man was not a writer of fiction。 He was an artless moralist；
as is clearly demonstrated by his anniversaries being celebrated
with marked emphasis by the heirs of the French Revolution； which
was not a political movement at all； but a great outburst of
morality。 He had no imagination； as the most casual perusal of
〃Emile〃 will prove。 He was no novelist； whose first virtue is
the exact understanding of the limits traced by the reality of
his time to the play of his invention。 Inspiration comes from
the earth； which has a past； a history； a future； not from the
cold and immutable heaven。 A writer of imaginative prose （even
more than any other sort of artist） stands confessed in his
works。 His conscience； his deeper sense of things； lawful and
unlawful； gives him his attitude before the world。 Indeed；
everyone who puts pen to paper for the reading of strangers
（unless a moralist； who； generally speaking； has no conscience
except the one he is at pains to produce for the use of others）
can speak of nothing else。 It is M。 Anatole France； the most
eloquent and just of French prose…writers； who says that we must
recognize at last that； 〃failing the resolution to hold our
peace； we can only talk of ourselves。〃
This remark； if I remember rightly； was made in the course of a
sparring match with the late Ferdinand Brunetiere over the
principles and rules of literary criticism。 As was fitting for a
man to whom we owe the memorable saying； 〃The good critic is he
who relates the adventures of his soul among ma