They need an interpreter, a tactful
interpreter, who will give them the key and let them find their
own chamber. Or who will wave them away from the door, or advise a
brief sojourn. To an editor such an interpreter is an ideal
reviewer. He will desire to be useful, and passionately attempt
it. He will feel his responsibility first to art and next to the
public, and then to his author, and last (as an editor I whisper
it) to the publisher. Reviewers forget the author and the public.
Their mandate comes from art (whose representative in the flesh
is, or should be, the editor). But their highest service is to
make a liaison between the reader and his book.
And the conclusion of this debate is, I think, a simple one.
Reviewing is a major sport, fascinating precisely because of
its difficulty, compelling precisely because it appeals to strong
instincts. For most of us it satisfies that desire to work for
some end which we ourselves approve, regardless of costs. The
editor, sardonically aware of a world that refuses to pay much for
what men do to please themselves or to reform others, sees here
his salvation, and is thankful.
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