Even in conversation these cannot all be
revealed; for many of them are too intimate to be spoken, and many
again are unknown even to those who hold them. To-day we ask of the
novelist that he disclose the finest, most hidden tissues of the soul.
To this end, the microscopy of analysis, the so-called psychological
method, must be employed. The novelist must perform upon his characters
the same sort of dissection that we perform when, introspecting, we
seek out the obscurer grounds of our conduct. And in the pursuit of
this knowledge the novelist can oftentimes do better with his characters
than we can do with ourselves. For utter sincerity regarding ourselves
is impossible; the desire to think well of ourselves prevents us from
recognizing the truth about ourselves. The novelist, on the contrary,
can be unprejudiced and can know fully what he himself is creating.
In order to accomplish this same purpose, the dramatist has to introduce
bits of self-analysis, unusually sincere and penetrating, spoken
aloud,--in the old style, monologues. And yet, without sacrificing the
truthfulness of his own art, he cannot go so deep here as the novelist.
Through his analysis of his characters, the novelist must, however,
construct them; otherwise he is a psychologist, not an artist. A
synthetic vision of personality must supervene upon the dissection,
and the emotional interest in character and action must subsist
alongside of the intellectual interest. He must not let us lose the
vivid sense of a living presence.
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