In the case of this latest novel he dreaded the
sight of a review as he would have done a gash from a rusty
knife. The judgments could not but be damnatory, and their
expression in journalistic phrase would disturb his mind with
evil rancour. No one would have insight enough to appreciate the
nature and cause of his book's demerits; every comment would be
wide of the mark; sneer, ridicule, trite objection, would but
madden him with a sense of injustice.
His position was illogical--one result of the moral weakness
which was allied with his aesthetic sensibility. Putting aside
the worthlessness of current reviewing, the critic of an isolated
book has of course nothing to do with its author's state of mind
and body any more than with the condition of his purse. Reardon
would have granted this, but he could not command his emotions.
He was in passionate revolt against the base necessities which
compelled him to put forth work in no way representing his
healthy powers, his artistic criterion. Not he had written this
book, but his accursed poverty. To assail him as the author was,
in his feeling, to be guilty of brutal insult.
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