The Works of Robert Louis Stevenson - Swanston Edition, Vol. 09Stevenson, Robert Louis
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The Works of Robert Louis Stevenson - Swanston Edition, Vol. 09
Stevenson, Robert Louis
English literature -- 19th century
but have met with resurrections: one, strangely bettered by another
hand, came on the stage itself and was played by bodily actors; the
other, originally known as _Semiramis: a Tragedy_, I have observed on
bookstalls under the _alias_ of "Prince Otto." But enough has been said
to show by what arts of impersonation and in what purely ventriloquial
efforts I first saw my words on paper.
That, like it or not, is the way to learn to write; whether I have
profited or not, that is the way. It was so Keats learned, and there was
never a finer temperament for literature than Keats's; it was so, if we
could trace it out, that all men have learned; and that is why a revival
of letters is always accompanied or heralded by a cast back to earlier
and fresher models. Perhaps I hear some one cry out: "But this is not
the way to be original!" It is not; nor is there any way but to be born
so. Nor yet, if you are born original, is there anything in this
training that shall clip the wings of your originality. There can be
none more original than Montaigne, neither could any be more unlike
Cicero; yet no craftsman can fail to see how much the one must have
tried in his time to imitate the other. Burns is the very type of a
prime force in letters: he was of all men the most imitative.
Shakespeare himself, the imperial, proceeds directly from a school. It
is only from a school that we can expect to have good writers, it is
almost invariably from a school that great writers, these lawless
exceptions, issue. Nor is there anything here that should astonish the
considerate. Before he can tell what cadences he truly prefers, the
student should have tried all that are possible; before he can choose
and preserve a fitting key of language, he should long have practised
the literary scales; and it is only after years of such gymnastic that
he can sit down at last, legions of words swarming to his call, dozens
of turns of phrase simultaneously bidding for his choice, and he himself
knowing what he wants to do and (within the narrow limit of a man's
ability) able to do it.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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