I had often and often a suspicion that my manner was too Dutch, too minute.... I _know_ I feel how much _more is to be done, ought to be done_, by suggestion than by delineation, by creative fancy than by _fac simile_ copying; how much more by skilful selection and fresh, consistent combination, than can be effected by the most acute observation of individuals, or diligent accumulation of particulars. There are little touches of _inconsistency_, which mark reality; for human nature is really inconsistent. And there are _exceptions_, as in grammar rules.... The value of odd characters depends upon their being actually known to be true. In history, extraordinary characters always interest us with all their inconsistencies, feeling we thus add to our actual knowledge of human nature. In fiction, we have not this conviction, and therefore not this sort or source of pleasure, even if ever so well done. Few readers do, or can, put themselves in the places of great criminals, or fear to yield to such and such temptations. They know that they cannot fall to the depth of evil at once, and they have no sympathy, no fear: their spirits are not “put in the act of falling.” But show them the steep path, the little declivity at first, the step by step downwards; and they tremble. Show them the postern-gate, or little breaches in their citadel of virtue; and they fly to guard these. In short, show to them their own little faults which may lead on to the greatest, and they shudder; that is, if this be done with truth, and brought home to their consciousness. This is all which, by reflection on my own mind, and comparison with others and with records in books, ... I feel or fancy I have sometimes done or can do. [Sidenote: “No commonplace book.”]