The Confessions of a Critic

"The Confessions of a Critic" by Charles Battell Loomis is a satirical exploration of the art of criticism, particularly in the realms of literature and the arts. Through witty observations and sharp prose, Loomis presents a series of anecdotes and reflections that offer a humorous yet thought-provoking commentary on the nature of criticism, the role of the critic, and the relationship between the creator and audience. The work combines personal musings with broader insights, inviting readers to contemplate the often subjective nature of artistic evaluation while entertaining them with Loomis's distinctive style and lively anecdotes.

• Short story

								
I met a prominent literary critic the other evening. A review signed
with his name or even with his initials is apt to make or mar the
work treated therein.

Now, I have not a little hypnotic power, and the mischievous idea
came into my head to hypnotize him and make him “confess.”

We were sitting in the reading-room of an up-town club. I led the
conversation to the subject of hypnotism, and soon gained the
critic’s consent to be put into a trance.

I did not influence him any more than to put his mind in the attitude
of truthfully answering what questions I might ask him.

Q. Which do you prefer to criticize, a book that has already been
reviewed or one that is perfectly fresh?

A. Oh, one that has been reviewed, and the oftener the better. I
thus gain some idea of the trend of critical opinion and shape my
review accordingly.

Q. Do you ever run counter to the general sentiment?

A. Yes; if I find that a book has been damned with faint praise,
I sometimes laud it to the skies and thus gain a reputation for
independence that is very useful to me. Or if a book has been
heralded by the best critics of both countries as “the book of the
year,” I sometimes pick it to pieces, taking its grammar as a basis,
or some other point that I think I can attack without injury to
my reputation for discernment, and again I score a victory for my
independence.

Q. Why don’t you like to be the first to review a new book?

A. For the same reason that most critics hate to--unless, indeed,
they are just out of college and are cock-sure of everything. I
fear that its author may be one of the numerous coming men. I may be
entirely at sea about the book. I prefer to get some idea of what the
consensus of the best opinion is.

Q. Then you do not consider your own the best opinion?

A. No; no one critic’s opinion is worth much.

Q. Can you tell an author by his style?

A. Always, if I know who he is before I begin to read. But it is
hazardous work to say such-and-such a work is by such-and-such a man
unless there are internal evidences aside from the style. Once a
book was sent to me for criticism. Before I opened it I lent it to a
waggish friend of mine, and he returned it next day. I looked at the
title-page, saw that it was by an absolutely unknown man and that
the scene was laid in India, and, of course, I felt safe in giving
it fits on the principle that Rudyard Kipling is not likely to be
equaled in this generation as a depicter of Indian life. Well, I said
that it was painfully crude and amateurish; that it might do for the
“Servants’ Own,” but was not a book for ladies and gentlemen; that
it had absolutely no style or local coloring; that the scene might
as well have been laid in Kamchatka; and that it was marked by but
one thing, audacity, for the author had borrowed some of Kipling’s
characters--to the extent of the names only. In short, I had fun with
that book, for I knew that my fellow-critics would with one accord
turn and rend it. By mere chance I didn’t sign it.

Q. And who had written the book?

A. Why, Kipling. My friend had cut another name out of a book and
had pasted it so neatly over Kipling’s wherever his occurred that I
was, of course, taken unawares. You can’t bank on style. Look how
positive people were Mark Twain had not written “Jeanne d’Arc.”

I here interrupted the flow of his conversation to say: “Your
experience is not unlike that of the reviewer who criticized ‘Silas
Lapham,’ and who had a sort of hazy notion from the similarity of
titles that it was by the author of ‘Silas Marner.’ You may remember,
it created a good deal of amusement at the time. He said that it
was a mistake for George Eliot to try to write a novel of American
life; that the vital essence--American humor--was lacking; that Silas
Lapham was a dull Englishman transplanted bodily into a very British
Boston; that his daughters were mere puppets, and the attempts at
Americanisms doleful in the extreme. He concluded by saying that her
‘Romola’ had shown that she was best on British soil, and that she
would better keep to the snug little isle in the future.”

“Yes,” said he, with a grin; “I remember that. It was my first
criticism. Most people supposed it was a humorous skit, even the
editors who accepted it, but I never was more in earnest. I was young
then.”

Q. If you received a book to review with the name of Hardy on the
title-page, would you give it a good send-off?

A. I certainly should, for I am a great admirer of Hardy; but I
should prefer to wait until some one else had done so, for fear it
might be another put-up job and turn out to be the work of some
fifth-rate English author.

I then brought him out of his trance. He sat silent for a moment. I
picked up the “Saturday Review” from the table and said, “Criticism
is a very noble calling.”

“It is indeed,” he responded earnestly. “It is one that requires
great insight into human nature, absolute independence, and not a
little charity.”

With which beautiful sentiments he rose and, bowing, left the room.
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