English fiction -- 20th century -- History and criticism; Fiction
genius always had to begin again at the beginning, and as a result made
only occasional discoveries, so that the ignorance of the world was like
an uncharted sea, dotted here and there with a ship of knowledge, unable
to signal to another. That is over. No hypothesis is too daring, no
claim is too great; every specialist is inflamed with an insatiable
appetite for more knowledge, and on the whole he is willing to publish
his own. This means that thousands, some of them men of talent, are
co-operating on a single point, and it is quite possible that they will
achieve more than the solitary outcast whom his fellows could not
understand.
Such a future is not open to the arts, for they endeavour to-day to
appeal not to small classes but to 'the public'; this means that they
must startle or remain unknown. The artist was not always so tempted;
sometimes he sold himself to a patron, but there were not many of them,
and so the artist worked for himself, hoping at best that a limited
cultured class would recognise him: to-day he must sing to a deaf
public, and so is tempted to bray. It is therefore in science and
statesmanship that the romantic quality of the future will be found.
Romance is a maligned word, debased to fit any calf-love; romance is
pinkish, or bluish, tender, feeble, and ends in orange blossom, or, as
the case may be, tears by the side of mother's grave. That is the
romance of the provincial touring company. True romance is virile,
generous, and its voice is as that of the trumpet. Romance is the wage
of the watcher, who with ever-open eyes scans the boundless air in
eternal expectation that a thing unknown will appear. Romance is the
quest of the unknown thing; it is Don Quixote riding Rozinante, Vasco da
Gama for the first time passing the Cape; romance is every little boy
who dug in the back garden in the hope of reaching the antipodes. For
the romantic goal is always on the other side of the hill; everlastingly
we seek it in love, for the spirit of the loved thing is on the other
side of the hill, because, more exactly, what we seek is on the other
side of ourselves.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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