But this novel should not be finally judged on the highest plane.
It is not a tragedy, it is a romance. It belongs on the plane
below, the plane of stories told to meet the secret desires of
humanity, which have little to do with reality, and are quite
oblivious to fact. On this plane "If Winter Comes" ranks highly,
for it is poignantly told, there is life in its characters, and
truth in the best of its scenes. Definition saves us from calling
a good novel great; it spares us the unnecessary error of calling
a good and readable story bad because it is not a triumph of
consistent art.
It is hard enough in all conscience to see that a given book is
good for _this_ but not good for _that;_ may be praised for its plot,
but certainly has not character enough to get long life. But when the
difficulty of adjusting standards is increased by the irresponsible
hullabaloo of commercial appreciation, no wonder that sensible people
estimate foolishly, and critics of standing are induced to write for
publication remarks that some day will (or should) make them sick. For
the publishers' "blurb" confuses all standards. Every book is
superlative in everything.
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