Revenge is not one. Critics have written for revenge, quoting
gleefully, "O that mine enemy would write a book!" Pope is our
classic example. But publishers have made that form of literary
vendetta unprofitable nowadays, and I am glad they have done so.
Much wit, but little criticism, has been inspired by
revenge. Furthermore, I notice in my own case, and my editorial self
confirms the belief, that the reviewer craves books to extol, not
books to condemn. He is happiest when his author is sympathetic to
his own temperament. Antipathetic books must be forced upon him.
Which leads me to the further conclusion that the prime motive for
reviewing is the creative instinct. We all of us have it, all of
the literary folk who make up a most surprising proportion of
every community in the United States. It works on us constantly.
Sometimes it comes to a head and then we do a story or a poem, an
essay or a book; but in the meantime it is constantly alive down
below, drawn toward every sympathetic manifestation without,
craving self-expression and, in default of that, expression by
others. If a book is in us we write; if it is not, we seize upon
another man's child, adopt it as ours, talk of it, learn to
understand it, let it go reluctantly with our blessing, and depart
vicariously satisfied.
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