There is malice
enough in gossip, but most of it is the purest kind of mental and
emotional satisfaction. Our interest in it is of exactly the same kind
as our interest in novels and romances. The stories which we tell about
ourselves and our friends make up the ephemeral, yet real prose
literature of daily life.
Most stories probably had their origin in more or less literal
transcriptions from real life. History is the basis of literature.
However, as stories are passed from one person to another, fiction
encroaches upon fact. Details are forgotten and have to be filled out
from the imagination; then a sheer delight in invention enters in; it
is so interesting to see if you can make a world as good as the real
one, or even outdo it in strangeness and wonder, provided, of course,
you can still get yourself believed. Even in the relation of real
events, creation inevitably plays a part; the whole of any story is
not worth telling; there must be selection, emphasis upon the most
striking particulars, and synthesis.
Besides the opportunity which it gives of unhampered control over the
story, fiction has still other advantages. The interest which we take
in tales of real life is bound up with personal appeals. This is most
racy in gossip, but something of the kind lingers in all narratives
of fact. Literature can become disinterested and universal in its
appeal only when, keeping the semblance of life, it becomes a work of
pure imagination. It is then, as Aristotle said, more philosophical,
that is, more universal and typical, than history.
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