The Note-Books of Samuel Butler

of Music, Pict

ht an

is ineffable; it must be felt from one person to another but cannot be articulated. All the most essential and thinking par

ce it will have an end in disintegration. It has entered into death. And yet till it can be thought about and realised more or less definitely it ha

es-things that can be felt but not explained-these are the most important, an

ment in words is nearly, though perhaps not quite, as mysterious as how an action can find embodim

lars, as writing was in the middle ages, and gradually became general. Even now speech is still growing; poor folks cannot understand the talk of educated people. Perhaps

i

bove words or below them; for with words come in translati

ds involves that it is still open to question; and the mere fact that a d

rip and dissect that which in ultimate essence is as ungrippable as shadow. Nevertheless there they are; we have got to live with them, and the wise course is to treat them as we do our neighbours

but they are, as a scaffolding, useful, if not indispensable, f

i

er juggle than the juggle it is intended to complain of. The question is

i

re is nothing so useless,

oney than words not in use are language. Books are like imprisoned souls until some one takes them down from a shelf and reads them. The coins are potential money as the words a

e

a pinch and on the sly if you can, but the unwritten law-which often comprises the written-must not

d

substantial enough unt

res

expression is of a piece with the fact that nothi

elo

hic plates that have no visible image

Charact

erited-and who can doubt it?-the eye and the finger ar

l and S

lie rotting unburied up and down the cou

and

nds. Trail unintentionally left is, as it were, hidden sight. Left intentionally, it is the unit of literature. It is the first mode of writing, from which grew that powe

cing and

evidence of this intention and desire. So it is with music, the written notes are not the main thing, nor is even the heard performance; these are only evidences

ing Literature, M

an episode or episodes which must arise out of your subject. The great thing is that all shall be new, and yet nothing new, at the same time; the details must minister to the main eff

limit to what he may omit. What is required is that he shall say what he elects to say discreetly; that he

ve Imp

tself; he should, therefore, not try to realise, and the less he looks as if he were trying to do so the more signs of judgment he will show. His business is to supply th

if a few of the most characteristic of these are put before us we take the rest as read, jump to a conclusion and realise the whole. If we did not conduct our thought on this principle-simplifying by suppress

portances depends upon a just appreciation of which letters in association's bond association will most readily dispense with. This depends u

ct: that is to say, who appreciates most accurately how much and how fast each one of them will carry, and is at most pains to give those only that will say most in t

ncessant importunity of small nobody-details that persist in trying to thrust themselves above their betters. It is less trouble to give in to these than to snub them duly and keep them in their proper places, yet it is precise

ill-chosen in respect of relative importance the whole effect is lost-it becomes top-heavy, as it were, and collapses. As for the number of details given, this does not matter: a man may give as few or as many as he chooses; he may stop at outline, or he may go on to Jean Van Eyck; what is essential

nch, they should be eaten from the best grape to the next best, and so on

considerations insisted on above, we feel as though we were with a troublesome cicerone who will not let us look at things with our own eyes but keeps intruding himself at every touch and turn and trying to exercise that undue influence upon us which generally proves to have been

e importances of the impressions made by the various characteristics of a gi

Grapes

will not have a good grape in the lot. Besides, you will be tempting Providence to kill you before you come to the best. This is why autumn seems better than spring: in the autumn we are eating our days

do the knives first, for it might please God to take me before I came to the forks, a

sen

the same in painting. It was harder not to paint a detail than to paint it, easier to put in all that one can see than to judge w

e can, but unreflectingly; hence it does not reflect the subject effectively into the spectator. We see it, but it does not come home to us. Metsu on the other hand omits all he can, but omits intelligently, an

done in fugue with a very simple subject is endless, but that the troubl

ness of life and the complexity of affairs, it stands to reason that we owe most to him who packs our trunks for us, so to speak, most intelligently, neither omitting what we are likely to want, nor inc

ng N

more pregnant and they breed new notes. I never try to lengthen them, so I do not know wheth

rte

ely. But it is easier to be long than short. I have always found compressing, cutting out, and tersifying a passage suggests more

is

will be able to cut down his works liberally. He will become prodigal not of writing-any fool can be this-but of omission. You become brief because you have more

ev

a thing short than to leave it a little long. Brevity is not only the soul of wit, but the soul of making oneself agreeable and of getting on with people, and, indeed,

fus

he thought while his eye is running over the verbiage. So, a little water may prevent a strong drink from burning throat and stomach. A style that is too terse is as fatiguing as one that is too

in Art, Liter

on to something less difficult and less unintelligible and, through this, to things easily do

fairly well, remains undone; the settling of this is sure to throw light upon the way in which the serious d

ide for these, not these for the main work, as large debts should stand aside for small ones, or truth for common charity and good feeling. If

dge is

less than that little I should be far more powerful. The rule should be never to learn a thing till one is pretty sure one wants it, or that one will want it before long so badly as not to be able to get on without it. This is what sensible people do about

t is pretty obvious that he cannot get on without it. This will save trouble both to boys and teachers, moreover it will be far more likely to increase a boy's desire to le

dem

he believes to be beyond his reach but climbs slowly onwards, taking very short steps, looking below as often as he likes but not above him, never trying his powers but seldom stopping, and then, sometimes, behold! he is on the top, which he would never have even aimed at could he have seen it from below. It is only in novels and

sk whether others find this same thing difficult or no. If we find the difficulty so great that the overcoming it is a labour and not a pleasure, we should either change our aim altogether, or aim, at any rate for a time,

aiting till a difficulty arose in practice and then tackling it, thus making the arising of each difficulty be the occasion for learning what had to be learnt about it-if I had approached painting in this way I should have been all right. As it is I have been all wrong, and it was South Kensington and Heatherley's that set me wrong. I listened to the n

y before me, than I did at the beginning. I am free to confess that in respect of painting I am a failure. I have spent far more time on painting than I have on anyt

hose for painting and, instead of writing, should have spent my time and money in being told that I was learning how to write. If I

be bona fide falls in the rough and tumble of the world; only, of course, let them be on a smal

I like them all; but I never find time to paint a picture now and only do small sketches and studies. I know in which I

nis

o be a nuisance to you for some time. Then you will remember it, but not otherwise. Let knowledge im

e unconscious and must be left to take care of themselves. During conscious moments take reasonable pains but no m

you those that you cannot see. By doing what you can you will gradually get to

ice of

g done and runs right up against you, hitting you in the eye until you do it. This calls you and

ary Co

to frame a mechanism of adventure for getting to undiscovered countries. We have n

B

eing dragged willy-nilly into writing it. So with all my books-the subjects were never of my own choosing; they pressed themselves upon me with more force than I could resist. If I had not liked the s

at

mething of the "de p

Id

il of childbirth about it; ideas are just as mor

and Ch

ouble must be taken with it as with the bringing up of a physica

ife o

r die. They all die sooner or later; but that will not hinder an author from trying to give his book as long a life as

tic

but of their unfitness for anything else. Books should be tried by a judge an

e c'est

work or what it means or even its technique; we enjoy the work without thinking of more than its beauty, and of how much we like the workman. "Le style c'est l'homme"-that style of which, if I may quote from memory, Buffon, again, says that it is like happiness, and "vient de la douceur de l'ame" [107]-and we care more about knowin

tra

t it is of Holbein or Rembrandt that we think more than of the subject of their picture. Even a portrait of Shakespeare by Holbe

n's

e like his dress-it should attrac

ntlet o

dly ever does a work of art hold its own against time if it was not treated

ness

s, costumes and fashions of any time; if not great without help from such unessential accessories, no help from th

rary

rite an inscription. I say "Can he name a kitten

and Tr

a really bad flaw in a subject cannot be treated out. Happily the man who has sense enough to treat a subject well will generally have sense enough to choose a good one, so that the case of a

ic O

nism. I try to make my own work belong to the youth of a public opinion. The history of the world is the record of the weakness, frailty an

ary Man

he effect upon the housemaid and make her a judge of his work. If she was an unusually clever, smart girl, t

ne, made him judge it more rigorously. I always intend to read, and generally do read, what I write aloud to some one; any one almost will do, but he should not be

ience to

s confined to each person's special subject, newspapers and magazines; so that the most important part of one's au

a Hundred

is writing, it will often guide him if he asks