A philosophy of life, even, is the inevitable presupposition of every
story. For no writer, no matter how direct and empirical he may be in
his methods, can escape from looking at life through the glass of
certain political, social, and religious ideas. He may have none of
his own construction, yet he will unconsciously share those of his
age. The prose literature of our own age, aside from some minor
differences of technique, differs from that of the past chiefly through
its more democratic and naturalistic views of life. And just as we
rightly ask of the novelist that he enlighten us regarding the subtler
causation of human action, so with equal right we may ask him to exhibit
the relations of the persons and incidents which he describes to social
organization, spiritual movements, and nature; for only so can they
be seen in their complete reality. Yet right here lurks a danger
threatening the enduring beauty of every story thus made complete. For
the social and cosmic background of life, as we have observed, can be
constructed only through thought, and thought, particularly regarding
such matters, is peculiarly liable to error. The artist who goes very
deep into this is sure to make mistakes. Even when he tries to use the
latest sociological, economic, and political theories, he runs great
risks; for these theories are always one-sided and subject to
correction; they never prove themselves to be what the artist thinks
and wants them to be--concrete views which he can apply with utter
faith.
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