Greatness and Dead Limbs

For a work to be great, it cannot be merely the result of a moment's chance, but requires much skill and effort, the pouring out of one's very self into the making of it. This is especially true of a book, and in particular the novel where it is the writer's experience that makes the characters living and real and the writer's imagination that makes the story vivid and unique.

Yet to say that the writer must pour his very self into his work is by no means exaggeration or mere poeticism, but truth.

It is rather as if one were to grow an extra limb—an arm let us say for example's sake—and naturally to accomplish such a feat (leaving aside its practical if not its utter impossibility) one must exert all his strength and energy into it, as if it could be done by strength of will alone. At first it would be a mere protuberance, but gradually it would begin to take on a resemblance to the other arms. Thus, growing slowly, it would at last be complete. (That would be the point at which one's friends would begin to ask what it felt like to have three arms. Of course the response would disappoint them, for there would have been no abrupt transition from two to three, but rather a gradual growing accustomed to it until the usage of three arms was as natural as had been two.)

Then comes the time to remove the limb. It was not made to become part of the body and function as a third arm, but as a work of art. (My analogy begins to grow stranger.) Thus one would then remove the arm, leaving behind an open wound, though hidden to all the world.

Rather than merely letting the limb remain lying about to admire, one must decide to show it to his friends and acquaintances. (And, yes, here my analogy grows very strange indeed.) Without this step, one would never notice all the imperfections in it, from the misplaced wrinkle on a knuckle to a darkened fingernail to the malformed elbow.

Either then, or after a time of rest, it comes time to reattach the arm, and work out those imperfections, striving once again to make an arm as perfect as those two already at his sides, which grew there without any effort on his part. Sometimes he must begin all over again with only the idea in his mind of what worked and what did not. For the intent is not merely to make an arm of sorts, but to make such an arm that all would recognize it as an arm just like any other arm.

Again the finished arm must be removed. This time it is more difficult and leaves a larger wound behind, for the more perfect it is, the more greatly does it become attached. This might happen a number of times, but all is aimed toward the final goal of sharing it with the whole world that they might learn from it by examining it.

Thus is the analogy finished, at least insofar as is my regard for it. The truths of the matter might be better expressed in other ways, but only in ways less palpable.

It is this pouring out of one's soul into his work that is both a toll upon his strength and yet brings joy unmeasurable; it is both a hardship and a testing of one's strength and will, and also a fulfillment. Perhaps, too, it is why writers are known for their tendency toward insanity and suchlike.