This may be because a thousand supremely good books have not yet been written--a melancholy reflection when we think of all the ink and paper that have been used since authorship began. I think, however, it is also partly due to the fact that as human society becomes civilised, books become more and more a necessary part of the environment of men and women, so that we may say that on the whole it is more natural for a civilised man to write a book about books than a book about birds or butterflies. In a highly-developed civilisation, literature inevitably takes literature as part of its subject-matter as it takes every other great human interest. Even the historian ends by admitting authors among his characters along with statesmen and soldiers, and in general literature we have poems on poets, essays on essayists, biographies of biographers, criticisms of critics, and novels about novelists. Writing about writers, indeed, has become in our day an all but universal practice, and it seems to me to stand in no more need of defence than writing about tramps or travellers, about business-men or burglars. There is, I admit, always a danger that a writer about writers may become excessively professional. He may discuss writing as a cotton-manufacturer would discuss the manufacture of cotton, telling us a great deal about the mechanism of production and nothing about the energies, sacrifices, and personal qualities that are the secret of genius in business as in the arts. Criticism of this kind is important, but its place is in a technical or professional treatise. Criticism, in order to justify itself as a branch of literature, must subordinate all such technical matter to philosophy or biography, or both,--must associate ideas about literature with ideas about life, as Schopenhauer did, or like Sainte-Beuve and Matthew Arnold, must portray in an author, not only an author, but a man. Those critics who write about literature as though it were a cult for the few instead of a normal human interest, confine themselves largely to analysis--some of them to pretended analysis. They do not see that the critic’s analysis is of value only if it leads to a synthesis. There is no use in his taking to pieces what he sees as the genius of Shakespeare if he cannot put it together again in such a way that it is mirrored in the minds and imaginations of his readers as well as in his own. It seems to me to be the positive task of criticism to create in one’s own mind an image of a writer’s genius and then to try to clear the minds of one’s readers so that the same image will be reflected in theirs. We may fail; but that, at least, is what we are attempting to do, or what we ought to be attempting to do. ROBERT LYND. LONDON, November, 1922. CONTENTS MORE OR LESS ANCIENT