thing to the imagination.

On the whole, Balzac must still be regarded as the greatest novelist
that ever lived. Not to love Balzac is not to love the art of fiction,
not to love the huge restorative pleasure of wandering at large
through a vast region of imaginary characters set in localities and
scenes which may be verified and authenticated by contact with
original places.

I would flatly refuse to two classes of persons, at any rate, any claim
to be regarded as genuine lovers of fiction. The first class are those
who want nothing but moral support and encouragement. These are
still under the illusion that Balzac is a wicked writer. The second
class are those who want nothing but neurotic excitement and
tingling sensual thrills. These are under the illusion that Balzac is a
dull writer.

There is yet a third class to whom I refuse the name of lovers of
fiction. These are the intellectual and psychological maniacs who
want nothing but elaborate social and personal problems, the
elucidation of which may throw scientific light upon anthropological
evolution. Well! We have George Eliot to supply the need of the
first; the author of "Homo Sapiens" to supply the need of the second;
and Paul Bourget to deal with the last.

It is difficult not to extend our refusal of the noble title of real
Fiction-Lovers to the whole modern generation. The frivolous craze
for short books and short stories is a proof of this.

The unfortunate illusion which has gone abroad of late that a thing
to be "artistic" must be concise and condensed and to the point,
encourages this heresy. I would add these "artistic" persons with
their pedantry of condensation and the "exact phrase" to all the
others who don't really love this large and liberal art. To a genuine
fiction-lover a book cannot be too long. What causes such true
amorists of imaginative creation real suffering is when a book
comes to an end. It can never be enjoyed again with quite the same
relish, with quite the same glow and thrill and ecstasy.

To listen to certain fanatics of the principle of unity is to get the
impression that these mysterious "artistic qualities" are things that
may be thrust into a work from outside, after a careful perusal of,
shall we say, Flaubert's Letters to Madame Something-or-other, or a
course of studies of the Short Story at Columbia University. Chop
the thing quite clear of all "surplusage and irrelevancy"; chop it clear
of all "unnecessary detai