VIII

James begins by taking it for granted that a novel is a work of art that must be judged by its oneness. Someone gave him that idea in the beginning of things and he has never found it out. He doesn’t find things out. He doesn’t even seem to want to find things out. He accepts very readily and then⁠—elaborates.⁠ ⁠… The only living human motives left in his novels are a certain avidity and an entirely superficial curiosity.⁠ ⁠… His people nose out suspicions, hint by hint, link by link. Have you ever known living human beings do that? The thing his novel is about is always there. It is like a church lit but with no congregation to distract you, with every light and line focused on the high altar. And on the altar, very reverently placed, intensely there, is a dead kitten, an egg shell, a piece of string.⁠ ⁠… Like his Altar of the Dead with nothing to the dead at all.⁠ ⁠… For if there was, they couldn’t all be candles, and the effect would