Conclusion

IT is tempting to conclude by speculations as to the future of the novel, will it become more or less realistic, will it be killed by the cinema, and so on. Speculations, whether sad or lively, always have a large air about them, they are a very convenient way of being helpful or impressive. But we have no right to entertain them. We have refused to be hampered by the past, so we must not profit by the future. We have visualized the novelists of the last two hundred years all writing together in one room, subject to the same emotions and putting the accidents of their age into the crucible of inspiration, and whatever our results, our method has been sound—sound for an assemblage of pseudo-scholars like ourselves. But we must visualize the novelists of the next two hundred years as also writing in the room. The change in their subject matter will be enormous; they will not change. We may harness the atom, we may land on the moon, we may abolish or intensify warfare, the mental processes of animals may be understood; but all these are trifles, they belong to history not to art. History develops, art stands still. The novelist of the future will have to pass all the new facts through the old if variable mechanism of the creative mind.

It is tempting to end by speculating about the novel’s future. Will the novel become more or less realistic? Will cinema kill it off? And so on. Speculation, whether gloomy or cheerful, always has an air of importance. It is a very convenient way to seem helpful or impressive. But we have no right to speculate. We have refused to let the past hold us back, so we must not take advantage of the future. We have imagined the novelists of the last two hundred years all writing together in one room. They share the same emotions and melt down the chance circumstances of their times in the crucible of inspiration. Whatever our results, our method has been sound. Sound, at least, for a gathering of pretend scholars like ourselves. But we must imagine the novelists of the next two hundred years writing in that room too. Their subject matter will change enormously, but the novelists themselves will not change. We may harness the atom, and we may land on the moon. We may abolish warfare or intensify it. We may come to understand animals’ mental processes. But all these are trifles. They belong to history, not to art. History develops, but art stands still. Future novelists will have to pass all the new facts through the old, though variable, machinery of the creative mind.

There is however one question which touches our subject, and which only a psychologist could answer. But let us ask it. Will the creative process itself alter? Will the mirror get a new coat of quicksilver? In other words, can human nature change? Let us consider this possibility for a moment—we are entitled to that much relaxation.

There is, however, one question related to our subject that only a psychologist could answer. But let us ask the question. Will the creative process itself change? Will the mirror get a new coating of mercury? In other words, can human nature change? Let us consider this possibility for a moment. We are entitled to that much relaxation.

It is amusing to listen to elderly people on this subject. Sometimes a man says in confident tones: "Human nature's the same in all ages. The primitive cave man lies deep in us all. Civilization—pooh! a mere veneer. You can't alter facts." He speaks like this when he is feeling prosperous and fat. When he is feeling depressed and is worried by the young, or is being sentimental about them on the ground that they will succeed in life when he has failed, then he will take the opposite view and say mysteriously, "Human nature is not the same. I have seen fundamental changes in my own time. You must face facts." And he goes on like this day after day, alternately facing facts and refusing to alter them.

It is amusing to listen to older people on this subject. Sometimes a man says confidently: "Human nature is the same in every age. The primitive caveman lies deep within us all. Civilization? Nonsense! Just a thin surface layer. You can't change facts." He talks this way when he feels prosperous and fat. When he feels depressed and troubled by the young, he takes the opposite view. Or he may grow sentimental about the young because he believes they will succeed in life where he has failed. Then he says mysteriously, "Human nature is not the same. I have seen fundamental changes in my own lifetime. You must face facts." And he carries on like this day after day, alternately facing facts and refusing to change them.

All I will do is to state a possibility. If human nature does alter it will be because individuals manage to look at themselves in a new way. Here and there people—a very few people, but a few novelists are among them—are trying to do this. Every institution and vested interest is against such a search: organized religion, the State, the family in its economic aspect, have nothing to gain, and it is only when outward prohibitions weaken that it can proceed: history conditions it to that extent. Perhaps the searchers will fail, perhaps it is impossible for the instrument of contemplation to contemplate itself, perhaps if it is possible it means the end of imaginative literature—which if I understand him rightly is the view of that acute enquirer, Mr. I. A. Richards. Anyhow—that way lies movement and even combustion for the novel, for if the novelist sees himself differently he will see his characters differently and a new system of lighting will result.

All I will do is suggest a possibility. If human nature does change, it will be because individuals manage to see themselves in a new way. Here and there, people are trying to do this. Very few people are trying, but a few novelists are among them. Every institution and vested interest opposes this search. Organized religion, the State, and the family as an economic unit have nothing to gain from it. The search can proceed only when external restrictions weaken. To that extent, history shapes the search. Perhaps the searchers will fail. Perhaps the mind, the instrument we use to examine things, cannot examine itself. Perhaps, if such self-examination is possible, it means the end of imaginative literature. If I understand him correctly, that is the view of that perceptive thinker, Mr. I. A. Richards. In any case, this direction offers the novel movement and even combustion. For if the novelist sees himself differently, he will see his characters differently, casting them in a new light.

I do not know on the verge of which philosophy or what rival philosophies the above remarks are wavering, but as I look back at my own scraps of knowledge and into my own heart, I see these two movements of the human mind: the great tedious onrush known as history, and a shy crablike sideways movement. Both movements have been neglected in these lectures: history because it only carries people on, it is just a train full of passengers; and the crablike movement because it is too slow and cautious to be visible over our tiny period of two hundred years. So we laid it down as an axiom when we started that human nature is unchangeable, and that it produces in rapid succession prose fictions, which fictions, when they contain 50,000 words or more, are called novels. If we had the power or license to take a wider view, and survey all human and pre-human activity, we might not conclude like this; the crablike movement, the shiftings of the passengers, might be visible, and the phrase "the development of the novel" might cease to be a pseudo-scholarly tag or a technical triviality, and become important, because it implied the development of humanity.

I do not know which philosophy, or competing philosophies, the remarks above hover on the edge of. But I look back at my own scraps of knowledge and into my own heart. I see two movements of the human mind: the great, tedious rush forward called history, and a shy, crablike sideways movement. These lectures have neglected both movements. History has been neglected because it only carries people along, like a train full of passengers. The crablike movement has been neglected because it is too slow and cautious to be seen over our mere two hundred years. So we began by taking it as a given that human nature does not change. We also assumed that human nature produces prose fiction in rapid succession. These works of fiction are called novels when they contain 50,000 words or more. If we had the ability or freedom to take a wider view, we might reach a different conclusion. We would need to survey all human and pre-human activity. The crablike movement, the shifting of passengers, might then become visible. And the phrase "the development of the novel" might stop being a label that sounds scholarly or a trivial technical term. The phrase might become important because it implied the development of humanity.