The yellow book, an illustrated quarterly. Vol. 1, April 1894
General
The yellow book, an illustrated quarterly. Vol. 1, April 1894
English literature -- 19th century -- Periodicals; Great Britain -- Periodicals; Literature, Modern -- 19th century -- Periodicals
The two developments of realism of which we have been speaking seem to
me to typify the two excesses into which frankness is inclined to fall;
on the one hand, the excess prompted by effeminacy--that is to say, by
the want of restraints which starts from enervated sensation; and on the
other, the excess which results from a certain brutal virility, which
proceeds from coarse familiarity with indulgence. The one whispers, the
other shouts; the one is the language of the courtesan, the other of the
bargee. What we miss in both alike is that true frankness which springs
from the artistic and moral temperament; the episodes are no part of a
whole in unity with itself; the impression they leave upon the reader is
not the impression of Hogarth's pictures; in one form they employ all
their art to render vice attractive, in the other, with absolutely no
art at all, they merely reproduce, with the fidelity of the kodak,
scenes and situations the existence of which we all acknowledge, while
taste prefers to forget them.
But the latest development of literary frankness is, I think, the most
insidious and fraught with the greatest danger to art. A new school has
arisen which combines the characteristics of effeminacy and brutality.
In its effeminate aspect it plays with the subtler emotions of sensual
pleasure, on its brutal side it has developed into that class of fiction
which for want of a better word I must call chirurgical. In poetry it
deals with very much the same passions as those which we have traced in
the verse to which allusion has been made above; but, instead of leaving
these refinements of lust to the haunts to which they are fitted, it has
introdduced them into the domestic chamber, and permeated marriage with
the ardours of promiscuous intercourse. In fiction it infects its
heroines with acquired diseases of names unmentionable, and has debased
the beauty of maternity by analysis of the process of gestation. Surely
the inartistic temperament can scarcely abuse literature further. I own
I can conceive nothing less beautiful.
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