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which had the merest shadow of right to voice an opinion； removed
by great distances from such natural affections as were still
left to me； and even estranged； in a measure； from them by the
totally unintelligible character of the life which had seduced me
so mysteriously from my allegiance； I may safely say that through
the blind force of circumstances the sea was to be all my world
and the merchant service my only home for a long succession of
years。 No wonder； then； that in my two exclusively sea
books〃The Nigger of the Narcissus；〃 and 〃The Mirror of the Sea〃
（and in the few short sea stories like 〃Youth〃 and 〃Typhoon〃I
have tried with an almost filial regard to render the vibration
of life in the great world of waters； in the hearts of the simple
men who have for ages traversed its solitudes； and also that
something sentient which seems to dwell in shipsthe creatures
of their hands and the objects of their care。
One's literary life must turn frequently for sustenance to
memories and seek discourse with the shades； unless one has made
up one's mind to write only in order to reprove mankind for what
it is； or praise it for what it is not； orgenerallyto teach
it how to behave。 Being neither quarrelsome； nor a flatterer；
nor a sage； I have done none of these things； and I am prepared
to put up serenely with the insignificance which attaches to
persons who are not meddlesome in some way or other。 But
resignation is not indifference。 I would not like to be left
standing as a mere spectator on the bank of the great stream
carrying onward so many lives。 I would fain claim for myself the
faculty of so much insight as can be expressed in a voice of
sympathy and compassion。
It seems to me that in one； at least； authoritative quarter of
criticism I am suspected of a certain unemotional； grim
acceptance of factsof what the French would call secheresse du
coeur。 Fifteen years of unbroken silence before praise or blame
testify sufficiently to my respect for criticism； that fine
flower of personal expression in the garden of letters。 But this
is more of a personal matter； reaching the man behind the work；
and therefore it may be alluded to in a volume which is a
personal note in the margin of the public page。 Not that I feel
hurt in the least。 The chargeif it amounted to a charge at
allwas made in the most considerate terms； in a tone of regret。
My answer is that if it be true that every novel contains an
element of autobiographyand this can hardly be denied； since
the creator can only express himself in his creationthen there
are some of us to whom an open display of sentiment is repugnant。
I would not unduly praise the virtue of restraint。 It is often
merely temperamental。 But it is not always a sign of coldness。
It may be pride。 There can be nothing more humiliating than to
see the shaft of one's emotion miss the mark of either laughter
or tears。 Nothing more humiliating！ And this for the reason
that should the mark be missed； should the open display of
emotion fail to move； then it must perish unavoidably in disgust
or contempt。 No artist can be reproached for shrinking from a
risk which only fools run to meet and only genius dare confront
with impunity。 In a task which mainly consists in laying one's
soul more or less bare to the world； a regard for decency； even
at the cost of success； is but the regard for one's own dignity
which is inseparably united with the dignity of one's work。
And thenit is very difficult to be wholly joyous or wholly sad
on this earth。 The comic； when it is human； soon takes upon
itself a face of pain； and some of our griefs （some only； not
all； for it is the capacity for suffering which makes man August
in the eyes of men） have their source in weaknesses which must be
recognized with smiling com passion as the common inheritance of
us all。 Joy and sorrow in this world pass into each other；
mingling their forms and their murmurs in the twilight of life as
mysterious as an over shadowed ocean； while the dazzling
brightness of supreme hopes lies far off； fascinating and still；
on the distant edge of the horizon。
Yes！ I； too； would like to hold the magic wand giving that
command over laughter and tears which is declared to be the
highest achievement of imaginative literature。 Only； to be a
great magician one must surrender oneself to occult and
irresponsible powers； either outside or within one's breast。 We
have all heard of simple men selling their souls for love or
power to some grotesque devil。 The most ordinary intelligence
can perceive without much reflection that anything of the sort is
bound to be a fool's bargain。 I don't lay claim to particular
wisdom because of my dislike and distrust of such transactions。
It may be my sea training acting upon a natural disposition to
keep good hold on the one thing really mine； but the fact is that
I have a positive horror of losing even for one moving moment
that full possession of my self which is the first condition of
good service。 And I have carried my notion of good service from
my earlier into my later existence。 I； who have never sought in
the written word anything else but a form of the BeautifulI
have carried over that article of creed from the decks of ships
to the more circumscribed space of my desk； and by that act； I
suppose； I have become permanently imperfect in the eyes of the
ineffable company of pure esthetes。
As in political so in literary action a man wins friends for
himself mostly by the passion of his prejudices and by the
consistent narrowness of his outlook。 But I have never been able
to love what was not lovable or hate what was not hateful out of
deference for some general principle。 Whether there be any
courage in making this admission I know not。 After the middle
turn of life's way we consider dangers and joys with a tranquil
mind。 So I proceed in peace to declare that I have always
suspected in the effort to bring into play the extremities of
emotions the debasing touch of insincerity。 In order to move
others deeply we must deliberately allow ourselves to be carried
away beyond the bounds of our normal sensibilityinnocently
enough； perhaps； and of necessity； like an actor who raises his
voice on the stage above the pitch of natural conversationbut
still we have to do that。 And surely this is no great sin。 But
the danger lies in the writer becoming the victim of his own
exaggeration； losing the exact notion of sincerity； and in the