still be unable to describe it in
literal and unequivocal terms. It cannot be done; and the only thing
to be said is that perhaps it can be approached, perhaps the book can
be seen, a little more closely in one way than in another. It is a
modest claim, and my own attempt to assert it will be still more
modest. A few familiar novels, possibly a dozen, by still fewer
writers--it will be enough if I can view this small handful with some
particularity. And I shall consider them, too, with no idea of
criticizing all their aspects, or even more than one. How they are
made is the only question I shall ask; and though indeed that is a
question which incidentally raises a good many others--questions of
the intention of the novelist, his choice of a subject, the manner of
his imagination, and so forth--these I shall follow no further than I
can help. And as for the few novels that I shall speak of, they will
be such as appear to illustrate most plainly the various elements of
the craft; one need not range widely to find them, nor does it matter
if the selection, from any other point of view, should seem arbitrary.
Many great names may be passed over, for it is not always the greatest
whose method of work gives the convenient example; on the other hand
the best example is always to be found among the great, and it is
essential to keep to their company.

But something may first be said of the reading of a novel. The
beginning of criticism is to read aright, in other words to get into
touch with the book as nearly as may be. It is a forlorn
enterprise--that is admitted; but there are degrees of unsuccess.

II

A book has a certain form, we all agree; what the form of a particular
book may be, whether good or bad, and whether it matters--these are
points of debate; but that a book _has_ a form, this is not disputed.
We hear the phrase on all sides, an unending argument is waged over
it. One critic condemns a novel as "shapeless," meaning that its shape
is objectionable; another retorts that if the novel has other fine
qualities, its shape is unimportant; and the two will continue their
controversy till an onlooker, pardonably bewildered, may begin to
suppose that "form" in fiction is something to be put in or left out
of a novel according to the taste of the author. But though the
discussion is indeed confusingly worded at times, it is clear that
there is agreement on this article at least--that a book is a thing to
whic