ect all work which is
conceived and executed outside the pale of their esthetics. An
intelligent critic ought, on the contrary, to seek out everything
which least resembles the novels already written, and urge young
authors as much as possible to try fresh paths.

All writers, Victor Hugo as much as M. Zola, have insistently claimed
the absolute and incontrovertible right to compose--that is to say, to
imagine or observe--in accordance with their individual conception of
originality, and that is a special manner of thinking, seeing,
understanding, and judging. Now the critic who assumes that "the
novel" can be defined in conformity with the ideas he has based on the
novels he prefers, and that certain immutable rules of construction
can be laid down, will always find himself at war with the artistic
temperament of a writer who introduces a new manner of work. A critic
really worthy of the name ought to be an analyst, devoid of
preferences or passions; like an expert in pictures, he should simply
estimate the artistic value of the object of art submitted to him. His
intelligence, open to everything, must so far supersede his
individuality as to leave him free to discover and praise books which
as a man he may not like, but which as a judge he must duly
appreciate.

But critics, for the most part, are only readers; whence it comes that
they almost always find fault with us on wrong grounds, or compliment
us without reserve or measure.

The reader, who looks for no more in a book than that it should
satisfy the natural tendencies of his own mind, wants the writer to
respond to his predominant taste, and he invariably praises a work or
a passage which appeals to his imagination, whether idealistic, gay,
licentious, melancholy, dreamy, or positive, as "striking" or "well
written."

The public as a whole is composed of various groups, whose cry to us
writers is:

"Comfort me."

"Amuse me."

"Touch me."

"Make me dream."

"Make me laugh."

"Make me shudder."

"Make me weep."

"Make me think."

And only a few chosen spirits say to the artist:

"Give me something fine in any form which may suit you best, according
to your own temperament."

The artist makes the attempt; succeeds or fails.

The critic ought to judge the result only in relation to the nature of
the attempt; he has no right to concern himself about tendencies. This
has been said a thousand times already; it will always need repeating.

Th