I tell you, if there is
anywhere a return of the vanished, it is then, at such moments, over
the tilted book held by the Perfect Reader.
And how quaint it is that he should diminish himself so modestly.
"Of course" (he says), "I'm only a Reader, and I don't know anything
about writing----" Why, you adorable creature, _You_ are our court
of final appeal, you are the one we come to, humbly, to know
whether, anywhere in our miserable efforts to set out our unruly
hearts in parallel lines, we have done an honest thing. What do we
care for what (most of) the critics say? They (we know only too
well) are not criticising _us_, but, unconsciously, themselves. They
skew their own dreams into their comment, and blame us for not
writing what they once wanted to. You we can trust, for you have
looked at life largely and without pettifogging qualms. The parallel
lines of our eager pages meet at Infinity--that is, in the infinite
understanding and judgment of the Perfect Reader.
The enjoyment of literature is a personal communion; it cannot be
outwardly instilled. The utmost the critic can do is read the
marriage service over the reader and the book. The union is
consummated, if at all, in secret. But now and then there comes up
the aisle a new Perfect Reader, and all the ghosts of literature
wait for him, starry-eyed, by the altar. And as long as there are
Perfect Readers, who read with passion, with glory, and then speed
to tell their friends, there will always be, ever and anon, a
Perfect Writer.
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