DANTE

XXIX. GOLDONI, MANZONI, D'AZEGLIO

XXX. "PASTOR FIDO," "AMINTA," "ROMOLA," "YEAST," "PAUL FERROLL"

XXXI. ERCKMANN-CHATRIAN, BJORSTJERNE BJORNSON

XXXII. TOURGUENIEF, AUERBACH

XXXIII. CERTAIN PREFERENCES AND EXPERIENCES

XXXIV. VALDES, GALDOS, VERGA, ZOLA, TROLLOPE, HARDY

XXXV. TOLSTOY

CRITICISM AND FICTION

I    II    III    IV    V.    VI.    VII.   
VIII.    IX.    X.    XI.    XII.    XIII.    XIV.   
XV.    XVII.    XVIII.    XIX.    XX.    XXI.   
XXII.    XXIII.    XXIV.    XXV.    XXVI.    XXVII.

PG EDITOR'S BOOKMARKS

BIBLIOGRAPHICAL

Perhaps the reader may not feel in these papers that inner solidarity which the writer is conscious of; and it is in this doubt that the writer wishes to offer a word of explanation. He owns, as he must, that they have every appearance of a group of desultory sketches and essays, without palpable relation to one another, or superficial allegiance to any central motive. Yet he ventures to hope that the reader who makes his way through them will be aware, in the retrospect, of something like this relation and this allegiance.

For my own part, if I am to identify myself with the writer who is here on his defence, I have never been able to see much difference between what seemed to me Literature and what seemed to me Life. If I did not find life in what professed to be literature, I disabled its profession, and possibly from this habit, now inveterate with me, I am never quite sure of life unless I find literature in it. Unless the thing seen reveals to me an intrinsic poetry, and puts on phrases that clothe it pleasingly to the imagination, I do not much care for it; but if it will do this, I do not mind how poor or common or squalid it shows at first glance: it challenges my curiosity and keeps my sympathy. Instantly I love it and wish to share my pleasure in it with some one else, or as many ones else as I can get to look or listen. If the thing is something read, rather than seen, I am not anxious about the matter: if it is like life, I know that it is poetry, and take it to my heart. There can be no offence in it for which its truth will not make me amends.

Out of this way of thinking and feeling about these two great things, about Literature and Life, there may have arisen a confusion as to which is which. But I do not wish to