Irish Jesuit Province

Reviewers' DilemmaAuthor(s): Emily HughesSource: The Irish Monthly, Vol. 72, No. 847 (Jan., 1944), pp. 1-4Published by: Irish Jesuit ProvinceStable URL: http://www.jstor.org/stable/20515213 .

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Reviewers' Dilemma

By EMILY HUGHES.

A SINGLE eye is invaluable to all critics. Blessed with it, they see things steadily and see them whole. You

might observe experts at picture exhibitions sometimes shutting one eye and screwing up the other to obtain this desir able singleness of vision. The effect is very happy, and forms one of the minor compensations of having to attend a picture exhibition.

Literary critics-the category to which reviewers, be it in ever so humble a capacity, belong-need this single eye if they are to function usefully. In each one the singleness may take some, different form but, having adopted it, they must stick to it, and be consistent, otherwise their public cannot trust them.

A book can be approached and dealt with according to its style, or its authenticity, or its sentiment, or even its syntax. The critic asks himself his single question: "Is this literature?" or, " Has this person studied his material?" or, " Will this book set the great big heart of my readers athrob?" or, " Are there any grammatical errors I could pounce upon?" Whether the answer is yes or no, the whole review takes its shape from the question, and there is a certain understanding established be

tween the reviewer and his readers on the point. Thus people who are in the habit of reading reviews can be as much attracted to a book by the disparagement of one reviewer as by the praise of another.

It is much easier and, on the whole, much honester, to dis

parage books than to praise them. No one can expect a masterpiece a week in these days, considering that, in the judg

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2 TH1E IRiISI] MONTHLY

ment of time, masterpieces have only appeared about once a century. However good a modern book may appear, compared to its' contemporaries, its stature shrinks quickly if we place it beside the great books of the past. rTis is not ta say that the books which are being written at present are not worth reading -they are well worth reading, and well worth criticising; but hardly worth praising. Praise is dull to read and write, and seldom sincere; but criticism is alive. Something can be learned from criticism, even by the person'who writes it. A critic, then, is one who sets up a certain standard beside a book and points

out how the book falls short. That is all very well in countries with an immense publishing

industry, where there are too many books being printed any how, and any attempt to thin them out earns general gratitude. But here at home the ranks are thin already. The industry is practically non-existent. The literary movement is new and has .not yet coalesced. In their anxiety to encourage'what growth there may be, reviewers deal too tenderly with it. They lay aside the standards by which they judge books from abroad, and set about boosting home produce. It is laudable, it is patriotic of them 'one can see their point.. But where is all this uncritical enthusiasm going to lead? The singleness of purpose is no longer there. The integrity of the critic as a critic is lost, and the public ceases to trust him. 'The literary movement itself

sujffers, and complacency, poor execution and lower standards all

round become the rule. The present state of the Irish novel is lamentable. It is

impossible to believe that our publishers are printing, the best

and only the best of the manuscripts they receive. They must

receive dozens for every one they print; what motives impel their often disastrous choice?

There' is literary activity going on -all -the time in our toNvns

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REVIEWERS' DILEMMA 8

and cities. Face any quiet, studious, imaginative person of your acquaintance with the firm question: " Have you ever written anything?" and the answer is almost sure to be yes. The standari of journalism is such that no educated person need despair of writing as well as, or better than, those whose work is printed. In all this profusion of fairly good talent there

.must surely be some very good talent-one does not ask for genius-that is not getting a hearing because it cannot get past tbe publisher.

What does get past him, by means we cannot surmise, is

amazingly uneven. At one end of the scale there are writers like Daniel Corkery and Francis MacManus, who can be judged

by any standards you choose-national or international-and still emerge triumphant from the trial. They do not need the secondary considerations of: " Aren't they Irish?" and "Aren't they only starting, musha? Be easy on them.'

At the other end come novels that no publisher who had ordinary competition to face-could afford to print; and these are reviewed vith praise that no critic with a reputation to keep could afford to bestow. This is partly kindness on the reviewer's side, partly patriotism and blood-is-thicker-than-water-ishness, and partly the fact that when his book (still in manuscript in the drawer of his desk) comes out, he will be glad of a few kind words

himself. He will, if challenged, declare that it is hard enough for unfortunate writers to make a living (especially in Ireland) and why should they cut each other's throats in print? No one

could quarrel with such humanitarian ideas, but somehow the

cold ideal of literary excellence has always been unmoved by appeals to its kinder nature: If a book is rubbish, it had better

not be written; the fact that it is the work of an Irish writer

does not save it. When there is some kind of agreement on

this point between all the reviewers in the country, perhaps then

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THE IRISH MONTHLY

the publishers will look for more able writers, and some new talent will see the light of day.

So unusual are unfavourable reviews at present that it is alimos impossible for 'the writer of one to make pe6ple believe that it

k free from personal bias. Unfavourable criticism must exist if reviews are ever to become anything but a supplement to the publishers' advertisements. As for humour at the author's expense-that is beyond the limits of possibility altogetherl

What Irish reviewer, for instance, would dare to polish off an

Irish novel with'the laconic 'sentence written by an American

about the novel, Lady Into Fox: " This is the best book I have ever read about a lady who turned into a fox "?

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