That is the hope, the ever-renewed hope,
with which the besotted reviewer takes up reviewing.
The creative instinct indeed is sexed, like the human that
possesses it. It seeks a mystical union with the imaginings of
others. The poet, the novelist, the essayist, seek the mind of the
reader; the critic seeks the mind of the writer. That we get so
much bad reviewing is due to incompatibility of temperament or
gross discrepancy in the mating intellects. Yet reviewers (and
authors), like lovers, hope ever for the perfect match.
I know one critic who tore his review in pieces because it
revealed the charlatanism of his beloved author. I know an author
who burnt his manuscript because his friend and critic had
misunderstood him. I see a thousand reviews (and have written
several of them) where book and reviewer muddle along together
like the partners of everyday marriages. But next time, one always
hopes, it will be different.
As an editor, I confess that I view all this effusion with some
distrust. One plain fact stands high and dry above the discussion:
books are being published daily, and some one must tell the busy
and none too discriminating public what they are worth--not to
mention the librarians who are so engaged in making out triple
cards and bibliographies and fitting titles to vague recollections
that they have no time left to read.
Pages:
217
218
219
220
221
222
223
224
225
226
227
228
229
230
231
232
233
234
235
236
237
238
239
240
241