Among other subjects we spoke of literature generally.
"I am tired of this eternal cackle about books," said Jephson; "these
columns of criticism to every line of writing; these endless books about
books; these shrill praises and shrill denunciations; this silly worship
of novelist Tom; this silly hate of poet Dick; this silly squabbling over
playwright Harry. There is no soberness, no sense in it all. One would
think, to listen to the High Priests of Culture, that man was made for
literature, not literature for man. Thought existed before the Printing
Press; and the men who wrote the best hundred books never read them.
Books have their place in the world, but they are not its purpose. They
are things side by side with beef and mutton, the scent of the sea, the
touch of a hand, the memory of a hope, and all the other items in the sum-
total of our three-score years and ten. Yet we speak of them as though
they were the voice of Life instead of merely its faint echo. Tales are
delightful _as_ tales--sweet as primroses after the long winter, restful
as the cawing of rooks at sunset. But we do not write 'tales' now; we
prepare 'human documents' and dissect souls."
He broke off abruptly in the midst of his tirade. "Do you know what
these 'psychological studies,' that are so fashionable just now, always
make me think of?" he said.
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