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How to Write a Novel

<h2>CHAPTER XI</h2> <h3>THE NOVEL v. THE SHORT STORY</h3> <h4>Practise the Short Story</h4> The beginner in fiction often asks: Is it not best to prepare for novel-writing by writing short stories? The question is much to the point, and merits a careful answer. First of all, what is the difference between a novel and a short story? The difference lies in the point of view. The short story generally deals with one event in one particular life; the novel deals with many events in several lives, where both characters and action are dominated by one progressive purpose. To put it another way: the short story is like a miniature in painting, whilst the novel demands a much larger canvas. A suggestive paragraph from a review sets forth clearly the difference referred [155]to: "The smaller your object of artistry, the nicer should be your touch, the more careful your attention to minutiæ. That, surely, would seem an axiom. You don't paint a miniature in the broad strokes that answer for a drop curtain, nor does the weaver of a pocket-handkerchief give to that fabric the texture of a carpet. But the usual writer of fiction, when it occurs to him to utilise one of his second best ideas in the manufacture of a short story, will commonly bring to his undertaking exactly the same slap-dash methods which he has found to serve in the construction of his novels. . . . Where he should have brought a finer method, he has brought a coarser; where he should have worked goldsmithwise, with tiny chisel, finishing exquisitely, he has worked blacksmithwise, with sledge hammer and anvil; where, because the thing is little, every detail counts, he has been slovenly in detail."[155:A] It has been said that the novel deals with life from the inside, and short stories with life from the outside; but this is [156]not so. Guy de Maupassant's "The Necklace" opens out to us a state of soul just as much as "Tess" does, even though it may be but a glimpse as compared with the prolonged exhibition of Mr Hardy's "pure woman." Returning to the question previously referred to, one may well hesitate to advise a novice to commence writing short stories which demand such infinite care in conception and execution. The tendency of young writers is to verbosity—longwindedness in dialogues, in descriptions, and in delineations of character,—whereas the chief excellence of the story is the extent and depth of its suggestions as compared with its brevity in words. Should not a man perfect himself in the less minute and less delicate methods of the novel before he attempts the finer art of the short story? There is a sound of good logic about all this, but it is not conclusive. Some men have a natural predilection for the larger canvas and some for the smaller, so that the final decision cannot be forced upon anyone on purely abstract grounds; we must first know a writer's native [157]capacity before advising him what to do. If you feel that literary art on a minute scale is your forte, then follow it enthusiastically, and work hard; if otherwise, act accordingly. But, after all, there are certain abstract considerations which lead me to say that the short story should be practised before the novel. Take the very material fact of size. Have those who object to this recommendation ever thought of what practising novel-writing means? How long does it take to make a couple of experiments of 80,000 words each? A good deal, no doubt, depends on the man himself, but a quick writer would not do much to satisfy others at the rate of 160,000 words in twelve months. No, time is too precious for practising works of such length as these, and since the general principles of fiction apply to both novel and short story alike, the student cannot do better than practise his art in the briefer form. Moreover, if he is wise, he will seek the advice of experts, and (a further base consideration) it will be cheaper to have 4000 words criticised than a MS. containing 80,000. [158]Further, the foundation principles of the art of fiction cannot be learned more effectively, even for the purpose of writing novels, than in practising short stories. All the points brought forward in the preceding pages relating to plot, dialogue, proportion, climax, and so forth, are elements of the latter as well as of the former. If, as has been said, "windiness" is the chief fault of the beginner, where can he learn to correct that error more quickly? The art of knowing what to leave out is important to a novelist; it is more important to the short story writer; hence, if it be studied on the smaller canvas, it will be of excellent service when attempting the larger. "The attention to detail, the obliteration of the unessential, the concentration in expression, which the form of the short story demands, tends to a beneficent influence on the style of fiction. No one doubts that many of the great novelists of the past are somewhat tedious and prolix. The style of Richardson, Scott, Dumas, Balzac, and Dickens, when they are not at their strongest and highest, is often slipshod and slovenly; and such [159]carelessly-worded passages as are everywhere in their works will scarcely be found in the novels of the future. The writers of short stories have made clear that the highest literary art knows neither synonyms, episodes, nor parentheses."[159:A] <h4>Short Story Writers on their Art</h4> I cannot pretend to give more than a few hints as to the best way of following out the advice laid down in the foregoing paragraphs, and prefer to let some writers speak for themselves. Of course, it does not follow that Mr Wedmore can instruct a novice in literary art, simply because he can write exquisite short stories himself; indeed, it often happens that such men do not really know how they produce their work; but Mr Wedmore's article on The Short Story in his volume called "Books and Arts" is most profitable reading. Some time ago a symposium appeared [160]in a popular journal,[160:A] on the subject How to Write a Short Story. Mr Robert Barr could be no other than pithy in his recipe. He says: "It seems to me that a short story writer should act, metaphorically, like this—he should put his idea for a story into one cup of a pair of balances, then into the other he should deal out words—five hundred, a thousand, two thousand, three thousand, as the case may be—and when the number of words thus paid in causes the beam to rise on which his idea hangs, then his story is finished. If he puts a word more or less he is doing false work. . . . My model is Euclid, whose justly celebrated book of short stories entitled 'The Elements of Geometry' will live when most of us who are scribbling to-day are forgotten. Euclid lays down his plot, sets instantly to work at its development, letting no incident creep in that does not bear relation to the climax, using no unnecessary word, always keeping his one end in view, and the moment he reaches [161]the culmination he stops." Mr Walter Raymond is apologetic. He fences a good deal, and pleads that the mention of "short story" is dangerous to his mental sequence, so much and so painfully has he tried to solve the problem of how one is written. Finally, however, he delivers himself of these pregnant sentences: "Show us the psychological moment; give us a sniff of the earth below; a glimpse of the sky above; and you will have produced a fine story. It need not exceed two thousand words." The author of "Tales of Mean Streets" says: "The command of form is the first thing to be cultivated. Let the pupil take a story by a writer distinguished by the perfection of his workmanship—none could be better than Guy de Maupassant—and let him consider that story apart from the book as something happening before his eyes. Let him review mentally everything that happens—the things that are not written in the story as well as those that are—and let him review them, not necessarily in the order in which the story presents them, but in that in which they would come before an observer [162]in real life. In short, from the fiction let him construct ordinary, natural, detailed, unselected, unarranged fact, making notes, if necessary, as he goes. Then let him compare his raw fact with the words of the master. He will see where the unessential is rejected; he will see how everything is given its just proportion in the design; he will perceive that every incident, every sentence, and every word has its value, its meaning, and its part in the whole." Mr Morrison's ideas are endorsed by Miss Jane Barlow, Mr G. B. Burgin, Mr G. M. Fenn, and Mrs L. T. Meade. Mr Joseph Hocking does not seem to care for the brevity of short story methods. He cites eight lines which he heard some children sing: <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> "Little boy, Pair of skates, Broken ice, Heaven's gates. </div> <div class="stanza"> Little girl Stole a plum, Cholera bad, Kingdom come," </div> </div> [163]and remarks: "Many of our short stories are constructed on the principle of these verses. So few words are used, that the reader does not feel he is reading a story, but an outline." Mr Hocking has the British Public on his side, no doubt, but the great British Public is not always right, as he appears to believe. I think if the reader will study the short stories of Guy de Maupassant and Mr Frederic Wedmore, and digest the advice given above, he will know enough to begin his work. Each experiment will enlarge his vision and discipline his pen, so that when he has accomplished something like tolerable success, he may safely attempt the larger canvas on the lines laid down in the preceding chapters. <hr class="footnotes" /> <h3>FOOTNOTES:</h3> <div class="footnote">[155:A] Daily Chronicle, June 22, 1899. </div> <div class="footnote">[159:A] The International Monthly, vol. i. </div> <div class="footnote">[160:A] The Young Man. </div> <hr class="newchapter" /> [164] <h2>CHAPTER XII</h2> <h3>SUCCESS: AND SOME OF ITS MINOR CONDITIONS</h3> <h4>The Truth about Success</h4> There are two kinds of success in fiction—commercial and literary; and sometimes a writer is able to combine the two. Thomas Hardy is an example of the writer who produces literature and has large sales. On the other hand, there are many writers who succeed in one direction, but not in the other. The works of Marie Corelli have an amazing circulation, but they are not regarded as literature; whereas such genuine work as that of Mr Quiller Couch has to be content with sales far less extensive. Now Thomas Hardy, Marie Corelli, and Quiller Couch have all succeeded, but in different ways. No doubt the reader would prefer to succeed in the manner of [165]Hardy, but if he can't do it, he must be content to succeed in the best way he can. It is easy to talk about Miss Corelli's "rot" and "bosh" and "high falutin," but long columns of figures in a publisher's ledger mean something after all. They do not necessarily mean literary merit, delicate insight, or beautiful characterisation; they probably mean a keen sense of what the public likes, and a power to tickle its palate in an agreeable manner. Still, not every man or woman is able to do this, and although such a success may not rank as one of the first order, it is a success which nobody can gainsay. Literary journals have been instituting "inquiries" into the cases of men like Mr Silas Hocking and the Rev. E. P. Roe: why have they a circulation numbered by the million? No "inquiry" is needed. They are literary merchantmen who have studied the book-market thoroughly, and as a result they know what is wanted and supply it. Let them have their reward without mean and angry demur. However one may try to explain the fact, it is none the less true that genuine [166]literature often fails to pay the expenses of publication; at any rate, if it accomplishes more than that, it is infinitesimal as compared with the huge sales of inferior work. I do not know the circulation of Mr Henry Harland's "Comedies and Errors"—possibly it has been moderate—but I would rather be the author of this volume of beautiful workmanship than of all the works of Marie Corelli—the bags of gold notwithstanding. Of course, this is merely a personal preference with which the reader may have no sympathy; but the fact remains that, if a writer produces real literature and it does not sell, he has not therefore failed in his purpose; he may not receive many cheques from his publisher, but it is real compensation to have an audience, "fit though few." On the general question of literary success, George Henry Lewes says: "We may lay it down, as a rule, that no work ever succeeded, even for a day, but it deserved that success; no work ever failed but under conditions which made failure inevitable. This will seem hard to men who feel that, in their case, neglect arises from prejudice or stupidity. Yet it is true even [167]in extreme cases; true even when the work once neglected has since been acknowledged superior to the works which for a time eclipsed it. Success, temporary or enduring, is the measure of the relation, temporary or enduring, which exists between a work and the public mind."[167:A] Failure has a still more fruitful cause—namely, the misdirection of talent. "Men are constantly attempting, without special aptitude, work for which special aptitude is indispensable. <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> 'On peut être honnête homme et faire mal des vers.' </div> </div> A man may be variously accomplished and yet be a feeble poet. He may be a real poet, yet a feeble dramatist. He may have dramatic faculty, yet be a feeble novelist. He may be a good story-teller, yet a shallow thinker and a slip-shod writer. For success in any special kind of work, it is obvious that a special talent is requisite; but obvious as this seems, when stated as a general proposition, it rarely serves to check a mistaken [168]presumption. There are many writers endowed with a certain susceptibility to the graces and refinements of literature, which has been fostered by culture till they have mistaken it for native power; and these men being destitute of native power are forced to imitate what others have created. They can understand how a man may have musical sensibility, and yet not be a good singer; but they fail to understand, at least in their own case, how a man may have literary sensibility, yet not be a good story-teller or an effective dramatist."[168:A] The conclusion of the whole matter is this: determine what your projected work is to do; if you are going to offer it in a popular market, give the public plenty for its money, and spice it well; if you are going to offer a sacrifice to the Goddess of Art, be content if you receive no more applause than that which comes from the few worshippers who surround the sacred shrine. <hr class="footnotes" /> <h3>FOOTNOTES:</h3> <div class="footnote">[167:A] "The Principles of Success in Literature," p. 10. </div> <div class="footnote">[168:A] "The Principles of Success in Literature," p. 7. </div> <hr class="newchapter" /> [169] <h2>SUCCESS</h2> <h4>Minor Conditions of Success</h4> 1. Good literature has the same value in manuscript as in typescript, but from the standpoint of author and publisher, it can hardly be said to have the same chances. Penmanship does not tend to improve, and some of the scrawly MSS. sent in to publishers are enough to create dismay in the stoutest heart. It is pure affectation to pretend to be above such small matters. Just as a dinner is all the more appetising because it is neatly and daintily served, so a MS. has better chances of being read and appreciated when set out in type-written characters. 2. Be sure that you are sending your MS. to the right publisher. Novels with a strongly developed moral purpose are not exactly the kind of thing wanted by Mr Heinemann; and if you have anything like "The Woman Who Did," don't send it to a Sunday School Publishing Company. These suppositions are no doubt absurd in the extreme, but they will serve my purpose in pointing out the [170]careless way in which many beginners dispose of their wares. Nearly all publishers specialise in some kind of literature, and it is the novelist's duty to study these types from publishers' catalogues, providing, of course, he does not know them already. The commercial instinct is proverbially lacking in authors; if it were not we should witness less frequently the spectacle of portly MSS. being sent out haphazard to publisher after publisher. 3. Perhaps my third point ought to have come first. It relates to the obtaining of an expert's views on the matter and form of your story. This will cost you a guinea, perhaps more, but it will save your time and hasten the possibilities of success. You can easily spend a guinea in postage and two or three more in having the MS. re-typed,—and yet the tale be ever the same—"Declined with thanks." Spare yourself many disappointments by putting your literary efforts before a competent critic, and let him point out the crudities, the digressions, and those weaknesses which betray the 'prentice hand. It will not be pleasant to see a pen line through your "glorious" passages, or two [171]blue pencil marks across a favourite piece of dialogue, but it is better to know your defects at once than to discover them by painful and constant rejections. 4. Be willing to learn; have no fear of hard work; do the best, and write the best that is in you; and never ape anybody, but be yourself. [172] <hr class="newchapter" /> [173]  <h2>APPENDICES</h2> [174]  <hr class="newchapter" /> [175] <h2>APPENDIX I</h2> <h3>THE PHILOSOPHY OF COMPOSITION[175:1]</h3> <h4>By Edgar Allan Poe</h4> Charles Dickens, in a note now lying before me, alluding to an examination I once made of the mechanism of "Barnaby Rudge," says—"By the way, are you aware that Godwin wrote his 'Caleb Williams' backwards? He first involved his hero in a web of difficulties, forming the second volume, and then, for the first, cast about him for some mode of accounting for what had been done." I cannot think this the precise mode of procedure on the part of Godwin—and indeed what he himself acknowledges, is not altogether in accordance with Mr. Dickens' idea—but the author of "Caleb Williams" was too good an artist not to perceive the advantage derivable from at least a somewhat [176]similar process. Nothing is more clear than that every plot, worth the name, must be elaborated to its dénouement before anything be attempted with the pen. It is only with the dénouement constantly in view that we can give a plot its indispensable air of consequence, or causation, by making the incidents, and especially the tone at all points, tend to the development of the intention. There is a radical error, I think, in the usual mode of constructing a story. Either history affords a thesis—or one is suggested by an incident of the day—or, at best, the author sets himself to work in the combination of striking events to form merely the basis of his narrative—designing, generally, to fill in with description, dialogue, or authorial comment, whatever crevices of fact, or action, may, from page to page, render themselves apparent. I prefer commencing with the consideration of an effect. Keeping originality always in view—for he is false to himself who ventures to dispense with so obvious and so easily attainable a source of interest—I say to myself, in the first place, "Of the innumerable effects, or impressions, [177]of which the heart, the intellect, or (more generally) the soul is susceptible, what one shall I, on the present occasion, select?" Having chosen a novel, first, and secondly a vivid effect, I consider whether it can be best wrought by incident or tone—whether by ordinary incidents and peculiar tone, or the converse, or by peculiarity both of incident and tone—afterward looking about me (or rather within) for such combinations of event, or tone, as shall best aid me in the construction of the effect. I have often thought how interesting a magazine paper might be written by any author who would—that is to say, who could—detail, step by step, the processes by which any one of his compositions attained its ultimate point of completion. Why such a paper has never been given to the world, I am much at a loss to say—but, perhaps, the authorial vanity has had more to do with the omission than any one other cause. Most writers—poets in especial—prefer having it understood that they compose by a species of fine frenzy—an ecstatic intuition—and would positively shudder at letting the public take a peep behind the scenes, at the elaborate and vacillating crudities [178]of thought—at the true purposes seized only at the last moment—at the innumerable glimpses of idea that arrived not at the maturity of full view—at the fully matured fancies discarded in despair as unmanageable—at the cautious selections and rejections—at the painful erasures and interpolations—in a word, at the wheels and pinions—the tackle for scene-shifting—the stepladders, and demon-traps—the cock's feathers, the red paint and the black patches, which, in ninety-nine cases out of the hundred, constitute the properties of the literary histrio. I am aware, on the other hand, that the case is by no means common, in which an author is at all in condition to retrace the steps by which his conclusions have been attained. In general, suggestions, having arisen pell-mell, are pursued and forgotten in a similar manner. For my own part, I have neither sympathy with the repugnance alluded to, nor, at any time, the least difficulty in recalling to mind the progressive steps of any of my compositions; and, since the interest of an analysis, or reconstruction, such as I have considered a desideratum, is quite independent of any real or fancied interest in the thing analysed, [179]it will not be regarded as a breach of decorum on my part to show the modus operandi by which some one of my own works was put together. I select "The Raven" as most generally known. It is my design to render it manifest that no one point in its composition is referable either to accident or intuition—that the work proceeded, step by step, to its completion with the precision and rigid consequence of a mathematical problem. Let us dismiss, as irrelevant to the poem, per se, the circumstance—or say the necessity—which, in the first place, gave rise to the intention of composing a poem that should suit at once the popular and the critical taste. We commence, then, with this intention. The initial consideration was that of extent. If any literary work is too long to be read at one sitting, we must be content to dispense with the immensely important effect derivable from unity of impression—for, if two sittings be required, the affairs of the world interfere, and everything like totality is at once destroyed. But since, cæteris paribus, no poet can afford to dispense with anything that may advance his design, it but remains to be seen whether there is, in [180]extent, any advantage to counterbalance the loss of unity which attends it. Here I say no, at once. What we term a long poem is, in fact, merely a succession of brief ones—that is to say, of brief poetical effects. It is needless to demonstrate that a poem is such, only inasmuch as it intensely excites, by elevating, the soul; and all intense excitements are, through a psychal necessity, brief. For this reason, at least one half of the "Paradise Lost" is essentially prose—a succession of poetical excitements interspersed, inevitably, with corresponding depressions—the whole being deprived, through the extremeness of its length, of the vastly important artistic element, totality, or unity, of effect. It appears evident, then, that there is a distinct limit, as regards length, to all works of literary art—the limit of a single sitting—and that, although in certain classes of prose composition, such as "Robinson Crusoe" (demanding no unity), this limit may be advantageously overpassed, it can never properly be overpassed in a poem. Within this limit, the extent of a poem may be made to bear mathematical relation to its merit—in other words, to the excitement or elevation—again, [181]in other words, to the degree of the true poetical effect which it is capable of inducing; for it is clear that the brevity must be in direct ratio of the intensity of the intended effect:—this, with one proviso—that a certain degree of duration is absolutely requisite for the production of any effect at all. Holding in view these considerations, as well as that degree of excitement which I deemed not above the popular, while not below the critical, taste, I reached at once what I conceived the proper length for my intended poem—a length of about one hundred lines. It is, in fact, a hundred and eight. My next thought concerned the choice of an impression, or effect, to be conveyed; and here I may as well observe that, throughout the construction I kept steadily in view the design of rendering the work universally appreciable. I should be carried too far out of my immediate topic were I to demonstrate a point upon which I have repeatedly insisted, and which, with the poetical, stands not in the slightest need of demonstration—the point, I mean, that Beauty is the sole legitimate province of the poem. A [182]few words, however, in elucidation of my real meaning, which some of my friends have evinced a disposition to misrepresent. That pleasure which is at once the most intense, the most elevating, and the most pure, is, I believe, found in the contemplation of the beautiful. When, indeed, men speak of Beauty, they mean, precisely, not a quality, as is supposed, but an effect—they refer, in short, just to that intense and pure elevation of soul—not of intellect, or of heart—upon which I have commented, and which is experienced in consequence of contemplating "the beautiful." Now I designate Beauty as the province of the poem, merely because it is an obvious rule of Art that effects should be made to spring from direct causes—that objects should be attained through means best adapted for their attainment—no one as yet having been weak enough to deny that the peculiar elevation alluded to, is most readily attained in the poem. Now the object Truth, or the satisfaction of the intellect, and the object Passion, or the excitement of the heart, are, although attainable, to a certain extent, in poetry, far more readily attainable in prose. Truth, in fact, demands a precision, and Passion a homeliness (the truly [183]passionate will comprehend me) which are absolutely antagonistic to that Beauty which, I maintain, is the excitement, or pleasurable elevation, of the soul. It by no means follows from anything here said, that passion, or even truth, may not be introduced, and even profitably introduced, into a poem—for they may serve in elucidation, or aid the general effect, as do discords in music, by contrast—but the true artist will always contrive, first, to tone them into proper subservience to the predominant aim; and, secondly, to enveil them, as far as possible, in that Beauty which is the atmosphere and the essence of the poem. Regarding, then, Beauty as my province, my next question referred to the tone of its highest manifestation—and all experience has shown that this tone is one of sadness. Beauty of whatever kind, in its supreme development, invariably excites the sensitive soul to tears. Melancholy is thus the most legitimate of all the poetical tones. The length, the province, and the tone, being thus determined, I betook myself to ordinary induction, with the view of obtaining some artistic piquancy which might serve me as a key-note in the construction of the poem—some pivot upon [184]which the whole structure might turn. In carefully thinking over all the usual artistic effects—or more properly points, in the theatrical sense—I did not fail to perceive immediately that no one had been so universally employed as that of the refrain. The universality of its employment sufficed to assure me of its intrinsic value, and spared me the necessity of submitting it to analysis. I considered it, however, with regard to its susceptibility of improvement, and soon saw it to be in a primitive condition. As commonly used, the refrain, or burden, not only is limited to lyric verse, but depends for its impression upon the force of monotone—both in sound and thought. The pleasure is deduced solely from the sense of identity—of repetition. I resolved to diversify, and so heighten, the effect, by adhering, in general, to the monotone of sound, while I continually varied that of thought: that is to say, I determined to produce continuously novel effects, by the variation of the application of the refrain—the refrain itself remaining, for the most part, unvaried. These points being settled, I next bethought me of the nature of my refrain. Since its [185]application was to be repeatedly varied, it was clear that the refrain itself must be brief, for there would have been an insurmountable difficulty in frequent variations of application in any sentence of length. In proportion to the brevity of the sentence, would, of course, be the facility of the variation. This led me at once to a single word as the best refrain. The question now arose as to the character of the word. Having made up my mind to a refrain, the division of the poem into stanzas was, of course, a corollary: the refrain forming the close to each stanza. That such a close, to have force, must be sonorous and susceptible of protracted emphasis, admitted no doubt: and these considerations inevitably led me to the long o as the most sonorous vowel, in connection with r as the most producible consonant. The sound of the refrain being thus determined, it became necessary to select a word embodying this sound, and at the same time in the fullest possible keeping with that melancholy which I had pre-determined as the tone of the poem. In such a search it would have been absolutely impossible to overlook the word "Nevermore." In [186]fact, it was the very first which presented itself. The next desideratum was a pretext for the continuous use of the one word "nevermore." In observing the difficulty which I at once found in inventing a sufficiently plausible reason for its continuous repetition, I did not fail to perceive that this difficulty arose solely from the pre-assumption that the word was to be so continuously or monotonously spoken by a human being—I did not fail to perceive, in short, that the difficulty lay in the reconciliation of this monotony with the exercise of reason on the part of the creature repeating the word. Here, then, immediately arose the idea of a non-reasoning creature capable of speech; and, very naturally, a parrot, in the first instance, suggested itself, but was superseded forthwith by a Raven, as equally capable of speech, and infinitely more in keeping with the intended tone. I had now gone so far as the conception of a Raven—the bird of ill omen—monotonously repeating the one word, "Nevermore," at the conclusion of each stanza, in a poem of melancholy tone, and in length about one hundred lines. [187]Now, never losing sight of the object supremeness, or perfection, at all points, I asked myself—"Of all melancholy topics, what, according to the universal understanding of mankind, is the most melancholy?" Death—was the obvious reply. "And when," I said, "is this most melancholy of topics most poetical?" From what I have already explained at some length, the answer, here also, is obvious—"When it most closely allies itself to Beauty: the death, then, of a beautiful woman is, unquestionably, the most poetical topic in the world—and equally is it beyond doubt that the lips best suited for such topic are those of a bereaved lover." I had now to combine the two ideas, of a lover lamenting his deceased mistress and a Raven continuously repeating the word "Nevermore."—I had to combine these, bearing in mind my design of varying, at every turn, the application of the word repeated; but the only intelligible mode of such combination is that of imagining the Raven employing the word in answer to the queries of the lover. And here it was that I saw at once the opportunity afforded for the effect on which I had been depending—that is to say, the effect of [188]the variation of application. I saw that I could make the first query propounded by the lover—the first query to which the Raven should reply "Nevermore"—that I could make this first query a commonplace one—the second less so—the third still less, and so on—until at length the lover, startled from his original nonchalance by the melancholy character of the word itself—by its frequent repetition—and by a consideration of the ominous reputation of the fowl that uttered it—is at length excited to superstition, and wildly propounds queries of a far different character—queries whose solution he has passionately at heart—propounds them half in superstition and half in that species of despair which delights in self-torture—propounds them not altogether because he believes in the prophetic or demoniac character of the bird (which, reason assures him, is merely repeating a lesson learned by rote), but because he experiences a frenzied pleasure in so modelling his question as to receive from the expected "Nevermore" the most delicious because the most intolerable of sorrow. Perceiving the opportunity thus afforded me—or, more strictly, thus forced upon me in the progress of the construction—I first [189]established in mind the climax, or concluding query—that query to which "Nevermore" should be in the last place an answer—that query in reply to which this word "Nevermore" should involve the utmost conceivable amount of sorrow and despair. Here then the poem may be said to have its beginning—at the end, where all works of art should begin—for it was here, at this point of my pre-considerations, that I first put pen to paper in the composition of the stanza: <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> "'Prophet!' said I, 'thing of evil! prophet still, if bird or devil! By that heaven that bends above us—by that God we both adore, Tell this soul with sorrow laden, if, within the distant Aidenn, It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore— Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore?' Quoth the Raven, 'Nevermore.'" </div> </div> I composed this stanza, at this point, first that, by establishing the climax, I might the better vary and graduate, as regards seriousness and [190]importance, the preceding queries of the lover—and, secondly, that I might definitely settle the rhythm, the metre, and the length and general arrangement of the stanza—as well as graduate the stanzas which were to precede, so that none of them might surpass this in rhythmical effect. Had I been able, in the subsequent composition, to construct more vigorous stanzas, I should, without scruple, have purposely enfeebled them, so as not to interfere with the climacteric effect. And here I may as well say a few words of the versification. My first object (as usual) was originality. The extent to which this has been neglected, in versification, is one of the most unaccountable things in the world. Admitting that there is little possibility of variety in mere rhythm, it is still clear that the possible varieties of metre and stanza are absolutely infinite—and yet, for centuries, no man, in verse, has ever done, or ever seemed to think of doing, an original thing. The fact is, that originality (unless in minds of very unusual force) is by no means a matter, as some suppose, of impulse or intuition. In general, to be found, it must be elaborately sought, and although a positive merit of the highest class, [191]demands in its attainment less of invention than negation. Of course, I pretend to no originality in either the rhythm or metre of the "Raven." The former is trochaic—the latter is octameter acatalectic, alternating with heptameter catalectic repeated in the refrain of the fifth verse, and terminating with tetrameter catalectic. Less pedantically—the feet employed throughout (trochees) consist of a long syllable followed by a short: the first line of the stanza consists of eight of these feet—the second of seven and a half (in effect two-thirds)—the third of eight—the fourth of seven and a half—the fifth the same—the sixth three and a half. Now, each of these lines, taken individually, has been employed before, and what originality the "Raven" has, is in their combination into stanza; nothing even remotely approaching this combination has ever been attempted. The effect of this originality of combination is aided by other unusual, and some altogether novel effects, arising from an extension of the application of the principles of rhyme and alliteration. The next point to be considered was the mode of bringing together the lover and the Raven—and [192]the first branch of this consideration was the locale. For this the most natural suggestion might seem to be a forest, or the fields—but it has always appeared to me that a close circumscription of space is absolutely necessary to the effect of insulated incident:—it has the force of a frame to a picture. It has an indisputable moral power in keeping concentrated the attention, and, of course, must not be confounded with mere unity of place. I determined, then, to place the lover in his chamber—in a chamber rendered sacred to him by memories of her who had frequented it. The room is represented as richly furnished—this in mere pursuance of the ideas I have already explained on the subject of Beauty, as the sole true poetical thesis. The locale being thus determined, I had now to introduce the bird—and the thought of introducing him through the window, was inevitable. The idea of making the lover suppose, in the first instance, that the flapping of the wings of the bird against the shutter, is a "tapping" at the door, originated in a wish to increase, by prolonging, the reader's curiosity, and in a desire to admit [193]the incidental effect arising from the lover's throwing open the door, finding all dark, and thence adopting the half-fancy that it was the spirit of his mistress that knocked. I made the night tempestuous, first, to account for the Raven's seeking admission, and secondly, for the effect of contrast with the (physical) serenity within the chamber. I made the bird alight on the bust of Pallas, also for the effect of contrast between the marble and the plumage—it being understood that the bust was absolutely suggested by the bird—the bust of Pallas being chosen, first, as most in keeping with the scholarship of the lover, and, secondly, for the sonorousness of the word, Pallas, itself. About the middle of the poem, also, I have availed myself of the force of contrast, with a view of deepening the ultimate impression. For example, an air of the fantastic—approaching as nearly to the ludicrous as was admissible—is given to the Raven's entrance. He comes in "with many a flirt and flutter." <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> "Not the least obeisance made he—not a moment stopped or stayed he, [194]But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door." </div> </div> In the two stanzas which follow, the design is more obviously carried out:— <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> "Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling By the grace and stern decorum of the countenance it wore, 'Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,' I said, 'art sure no craven, Ghastly, grim, and ancient Raven wandering from the Nightly shore— Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore?' Quoth the Raven, 'Nevermore.' </div> <div class="stanza"> Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly, Though its answer little meaning—little relevancy bore; For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door— Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door, With such name as 'Nevermore.'" </div> </div> [195]The effect of the dénouement being thus provided for, I immediately drop the fantastic for a tone of the most profound seriousness:—this tone commencing in the stanza directly following the one last quoted, with the line, <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> "But the Raven, sitting lonely on that placid bust, spoke only," etc. </div> </div> From this epoch the lover no longer jests—no longer sees any thing even of the fantastic in the Raven's demeanour. He speaks of him as a "grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore," and feels the "fiery eyes" burning into his "bosom's core." This revolution of thought, or fancy, on the lover's part, is intended to induce a similar one on the part of the reader—to bring the mind into a proper frame for the dénouement—which is now brought about as rapidly and as directly as possible. With the dénouement proper—with the Raven's reply, "Nevermore," to the lover's final demand if he shall meet his mistress in another world—the poem, in its obvious phase, that of a simple narrative, may be said to have its completion. So far, every thing is within the limits of the accountable—of [196]the real. A raven, having learned by rote the single word "Nevermore," and having escaped from the custody of its owner, is driven at midnight, through the violence of a storm, to seek admission at a window from which a light still gleams—the chamber-window of a student, occupied half in poring over a volume, half in dreaming of a beloved mistress deceased. The casement being thrown open at the fluttering of the bird's wings, the bird itself perches on the most convenient seat out of the immediate reach of the student, who, amused by the incident and the oddity of the visitor's demeanour, demands of it, in jest, and without looking for a reply, its name. The raven addressed, answers with its customary word, "Nevermore"—a word which finds immediate echo in the melancholy heart of the student, who, giving utterance aloud to certain thoughts suggested by the occasion, is again startled by the fowl's repetition of "Nevermore." The student now guesses the state of the case, but is impelled, as I have before explained, by the human thirst for self-torture, and in part by superstition, to propound such queries to the bird as will bring him, the lover, the most of the [197]luxury of sorrow, through the anticipated answer "Nevermore." With the indulgence, to the extreme, of this self-torture, the narration, in what I have termed its first or obvious phase, has a natural termination, and so far there has been no overstepping of the limits of the real. But in subjects so handled, however skilfully, or with however vivid an array of incident, there is always a certain hardness or nakedness, which repels the artistical eye. Two things are invariably required—first, some amount of complexity, or more properly, adaptation; and, secondly, some amount of suggestiveness—some under-current, however indefinite, of meaning. It is this latter, in especial, which imparts to a work of art so much of that richness (to borrow from colloquy a forcible term) which we are too fond of confounding with the ideal. It is the excess of the suggested meaning—it is the rendering this the upper instead of the under current of the theme—which turns into prose (and that of the very flattest kind) the so-called poetry of the so-called transcendentalists. Holding these opinions, I added the two concluding stanzas of the poem—their suggestiveness [198]being thus made to pervade all the narrative which has preceded them. The under-current of meaning is rendered first apparent in the lines— <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> "'Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!' Quoth the Raven, 'Nevermore!'" </div> </div> It will be observed that the words, "from out my heart," involve the first metaphorical expression in the poem. They, with the answer "Nevermore," dispose the mind to seek a moral in all that has been previously narrated. The reader begins now to regard the Raven as emblematical—but it is not until the very last line of the very last stanza, that the intention of making him emblematical of Mournful and Never-ending Remembrance is permitted distinctly to be seen:— <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> "And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting, On the pallid bust of Pallas, just above my chamber door; And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming, [199]And the lamplight o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor; And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor Shall be lifted—nevermore!" </div> </div> <hr class="footnotes" /> <h3>FOOTNOTES:</h3> <div class="footnote">[175:1] I do not hold myself responsible for Poe's literary judgments: my purpose in reproducing this essay is to reveal Poe's methods. </div> [200] <hr class="newchapter" /> [201] <h2>APPENDIX II</h2> <h3>BOOKS WORTH READING</h3> <div class="blockquot">1. "The Art of Fiction." By Sir Walter Besant. Lecture delivered at the Royal Institution, April 25th, 1884. 2. "Le Roman Naturaliste." By F. Brunetiére. Paris, 1883. 3. "The Novel: What it is." By F. Marion Crawford. New York, 1894. 4. "The Development of the English Novel." By W. L. Cross. London, 1899. 5. "Style." By T. de Quincey. "Works." Edinburgh, 1890. 6. "The Limits of Realism in Fiction," and "The Tyranny of the Novel" (in "Questions at Issue"). By Edmund Gosse. 7. "The House of Seven Gables." By N. Hawthorne. See Preface. [202]8. "Confessions and Criticisms." By Julian Hawthorne. 9. "Criticism and Fiction." By W. D. Howells. New York, 1891. 10. "The Art of Fiction" (in "Partial Portraits"). By Henry James. London, 1888. 11. "The Art of Thomas Hardy." By Lionel Johnson. 12. "The Principles of Success in Literature." By G. H. Lewes. London, 1898. 13. "The English Novel and the Principles of its Development." New York, 1883. 14. "The Philosophy of the Short Story" (in Pen and Ink). By Brander Matthews. New York, 1888. 15. "Pierre and Jean." By Guy de Maupassant. See Preface. 16. "Four Years of Novel Reading." By Professor Moulton. London, 1895. 17. "The British Novelists and their Styles." By David Masson. London, 1859. 18. "Appreciations, with an Essay on Style." By Walter Pater. London, 1890. [203]19. "The English Novel." By Walter Raleigh. London, 1894. 20. "Style." By Walter Raleigh. London, 1897. 21. "The Logic of Style." By W. Renton. London, 1874. 22. "The Philosophy of Fiction." By D. G. Thompson. New York, 1890. 23. "A Humble Remonstrance," and "A Gossip on Romance" (in "Memories and Portraits"). By R. L. Stevenson. 24. "The Present State of the English Novel" (in "Miscellaneous Essays"). By George Saintsbury. London, 1892. 25. "Notes on Style" (in "Essays: Speculative and Suggestive"). By J. A. Symonds. London, 1890. 26. "The Philosophy of Style." By Herbert Spencer. London, 1872. 27. "Introduction to the Study of English Fiction." By W. E. Simonds. Boston, U.S.A., 1894. 28. "Le Roman Experimental." Paris, 1881. 29. "How to Write Fiction." Published by George Redway. [204]30. "The Art of Writing Fiction." Published by Wells Gardner. 31. "On Novels and the Art of Writing Them." By Anthony Trollope. In his "Autobiography," vol. ii. </div> <hr class="newchapter" /> [205] <h2>APPENDIX III</h2> <h3>MAGAZINE ARTICLES ON WRITING FICTION</h3> <div class="blockquot"> "One Way to Write a Novel." By Julian Hawthorne. Cosmopolitan, vol. ii p. 96. "Names in Novels." Blackwood, vol cl. p. 230. "Naming of Novels." Macmillan, vol. lxi. p. 372. "Fiction as a Literary Form." By H. W. Mabie. Scribner's Magazine, vol. v. p. 620. "Candour in English Fiction." By W. Besant, Mrs Lynn Linton, and Thomas Hardy. New Review, vol. ii. p. 6. "The Future of Fiction." By James Sully. Forum, vol. ix. p. 644. "Names in Fiction." By G. Saintsbury. Macmillan, vol. lix. p. 115. "Real People in Fiction." By W. S. Walsh. Lippincott, vol. xlviii. p. 309. [206]"The Relation of Art to Truth." By W. H. Mallock. Forum, vol. ix p. 36. "Success in Fiction." By M. O. W. Oliphant. Forum, vol vii. p. 314. "Great Writers and their Art." Chambers's Journal, vol. lxv. p. 465. "The Jews in English Fiction." London Quarterly Review, vol. xxviii. 1897. "Heroines in Modern Fiction." National Review, vol. xxix. 1897. "A Claim for the Art of Fiction." By E. G. Wheelwright. Westminster Review, vol. cxlvi. 1896. "The Speculations of a Story-Teller." By G. W. Cable. Atlantic Monthly, vol. lxxviii. 1896. "A Novelist's Views of Novel Writing." By E. S. Phelps. M'Clure's Magazine, vol. viii. 1896. "Hints to Young Authors of Fiction." By Grant Allen. Great Thoughts, vol. vii. 1896. "Novels Without a Purpose." North American Review, vol. clxiii. 1896. "The Fiction of the Future." Symposium. Ludgate Monthly, vol. ii. 1896. [207]"The Place of Realism in Fiction." Humanitarian, vol. vii. 1895. By Dr W. Barry, A. Daudet, Miss E. Dixon, Sir G. Douglas, G. Gissing, W. H. Mallock, Richard Pryce, Miss A. Sergeant, F. Wedmore, and W. H. Wilkins. "The Influence of Idealism in Fiction." By Ingrad Harting. Humanitarian, vol. vi. 1895. "Novelists on their Works." Ludgate Monthly, vol. i. 1895. "Novel Writing and Novel Reading." Interview with Baring Gould. Cassell's Family Magazine, vol. xxii. 1894. "The Women Characters of Fiction." By H. Schutz Wilson. Gentleman's Magazine, vol. cclxxvii. 1894. "School of Fiction Series." In Atalanta, vol. vii. 1894: <div class="blockquot2">1. "The Picturesque Novel, as represented by R. D. Blackmore." By K. Macquoid. 2. "The Autobiographical Novel, as represented by C. Brontë." By Dr A. H. Japp. 3. "The Historical Novel, as represented by Sir Walter Scott." By E. L. Arnold. [208]4. "The Ethical Novel, as represented by George Eliot." By J. A. Noble. 5. "The Satirical Novel, as represented by W. M. Thackeray." By H. A. Page. 6. "The Human Novel, as represented by Mrs Gaskell." By Maxwell Gray. 7. "The Sensational Novel, as represented by Mrs Henry Wood." By E. C. Grey. 8. "The Humorous Novel, as represented by Oliver Goldsmith." By Dr A. H. Japp. </div> "The Shudder in Literature." By Jules Claretie. North American Review, vol. clv. 1892. "The Profitable Reading of Fiction." By Thomas Hardy. Forum, vol. v. p. 57. "The Picturesque in Novels." Chambers's Journal, vol. lxii. 1892. "Realism in Fiction." By E. F. Benson. Nineteenth Century, vol. xxxiv. 1893. "Great Characters in Novels." Spectator, vol. lxxi. 1893. "The Modern Novel." By A. E. Barr. North American Review, vol. clix. 1894. "The Novels of Adventure and Manners." Quarterly Review, vol. clxxix. 1894. [209]"The Women of Fiction." By H. S. Wilson. Gentleman's Magazine, new series, vol. liii. 1894. "Why do Certain Works of Fiction Succeed?" By M. Wilcox. New Scientific Review, vol. i. 1894. "Magazine Fiction, and How not to Write It." By F. M. Bird. Lippincott's Magazine, vol. liv. 1894. "The Picaresque Novel." By J. F. Kelly. New Review, vol. xiii. p. 59. "The Irresponsible Novelist." Macmillan's Magazine, vol. lxxii. p. 73. "Great Realists and Empty Story Tellers." By H. H. Boyesen. Forum, vol. xviii. p. 724. "Motion and Emotion in Fiction." By R. M. Doggett. Overland Monthly, new series, vol. xxvi. p. 614. "'Tendencies' in Fiction." By A. Lang. North American Review, vol. clxi. p. 153. "The Two Eternal Types in Fiction." By H. W. Mabie. Forum, vol. xix. p. 41. "The Problem of the Novel." By A. N. Meyer. Arena, vol xvii. 1897. [210]"My Favourite Novel and Novelist." The Munsey Magazine, vols. xvii.-xviii. 1897. By W. D. Howells, B. Matthews, F. B. Stockton, Mrs B. Harrison, S. R. Crockett, P. Bourget, W. C. Russell, and A. Hope Hawkins. "Hard Times among the Heroines of Novels." By E. A. Madden. Lippincott's Magazine, vol. lxix. 1897. "On the Theory and Practice of Local Colour." By W. P. James. Macmillan's Magazine, vol. lxxvi. 1897. "The Writing of Fiction." By F. M. Bird. Lippincott's Magazine, vol. lx. 1897. "Novelists' Estimates of their own Work." National Magazine (Boston, U.S.A.), vol. x. 1897. "Fundamentals of Fiction." By B. Burton. Forum, vol. xxviii. 1899. "On the Future of Novel Writing." By Sir Walter Besant. The Idler, vol. xiii. 1898. "The Short Story." By F. Wedmore. Nineteenth Century, vol. xliii. 1898. [211]"The Complete Novelist." By James Payn. Strand, vol. xiv. 1897. "What is a Realist?" By A. Morrison. New Review, vol. xvi. 1897. "The Historical Novel." By B. Matthews. Forum, vol. xxiv. 1897. "The Limits of Realism in Fiction." By Paul Bourget. New Review, vol. viii. p. 201. "New Watchwords in Fiction." By Hall Caine. Contemporary Review, vol. lvii. p. 479. "The Science of Fiction." By Paul Bourget, Walter Besant, and Thomas Hardy. New Review, vol. iv. p. 304. "The Dangers of the Analytic Spirit in Fiction." By Paul Bourget. New Review, vol. vi. p. 48. "Cervantes, Zola, Kipling, and Coy." By Brander Matthews. Cosmopolitan, vol. xiv. p. 609. "On Style in Literature." By R. L. Stevenson. Contemporary Review, vol. xlvii. p. 458. "The Apotheosis of the Novel." By Herbert Paul. Contemporary Review, vol. xli. 1897. [212]"Vacant Places in Literature." By W. Robertson Nicoll. British Weekly, March 20, 1895. "What Makes a Novel Successful?" By W. Robertson Nicoll. British Weekly, June 16, 1896. "The Use of Dialect in Fiction." By F. H. French. Atalanta, vol. viii. p. 125. </div> THE RIVERSIDE PRESS LIMITED, EDINBURGH <hr class="newchapter" /> <h2>TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES</h2> Pages iv, vi, xii, 172, 174, and 200 are blank in the orginal. The following corrections have been made to the text: <div class="blockquot"> Page 77: says Mr W. M. Hunt.[original has comma] Page 87: If you know your characters[original has chararacters] Page 101: and "risk" the reader's acuteness,[original has cuteness] Page 113: in a way quite different to[illegible in the original] everybody else Page 126: for which, indeed, the spot[illegible in the original—confirmed in other sources] is most fit Page 202: 9. "Criticism and Fiction."[quotation mark missing in original] By W. D. Howells. [120:A] Erichsen: "Methods of Authors.[period missing in original]" </div> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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