On the Necessity of Having an Opinion

I have recently been asked to read a paper wherein were set forth my opinions regarding the ethics of the novel. I was to say what I thought it should be and is not, and to give the reasons why.

The suggestion filled me with discomfort. In this age and place it is humiliating to discover that one has no opinion on a given point of ethics; but I cannot decide whether a novel should be an undisguised sweetmeat, or a pill of information in the gilding of a story, — cannot even decide which I prefer. It seems to me the height of unreason to expect any normal person to do this. Why should I find fault with any kind of novel, provided it be good of its kind ? No art has so wide a field as the art of fiction, this field being nothing less than the whole of human life; and as life is many things, so must the novel be. It seems as foolish to find fault with different kinds of novels as with different kinds of food. There is a large and worthy class of people who start the day on baked beans and brown bread, with possibly a chop thrown in. There is another equally large and equally worthy class for whom a roll and a cup of coffee will suffice; but shall I condemn either of these because of a personal preference for muffins and marmalade ?

There are people who read novels to make them think. There are those who read them in order that they may not think. There are people who read novels in order to experience emotions. There are those who read them in order to escape emotions. There are people who read novels because they have not enough to do. There are others who read them because they have too much to do, and need relaxation. Does it not seem foolish to say that one is more right than the other ?

If I must confess to a personal preference, as I have done on the subject of breakfast foods, I will say that I do not like a story to end badly, and never read such an one unless tempted by a promise of some unusual significance of life or literary art. It is easy to be harrowed by real life. I can involuntarily and without the aid of a book be as miserable as any one could wish. Why, then, should I be voluntarily miserable, and pay a dollar or so, according to bindings, for the experience ?

I know that this is a primitive point of view, one that is justly censured by all literary artists, but I must confess to never having “grown up” in my attitude toward stories. I do not (like my friend of exalted intellect) read a novel to see how it is done, but to find out what happens, and the people and incidents are appallingly real to me. But whatever my personal feelings may be, I do not therefore condemn all novels with bad endings. Though I have a weak-minded preference for being cheerful as often as I can, shall I find fault with those who are willing to pay for being miserable ?

Why this feverish need of classifying our mental states, this defining, or, what is usually the same thing, confining our opinions? I dare not reflect upon the number of organizations that exist for the sole purpose of enabling people to say what they think, and why they think it. But some of us find it inconvenient to be asked to proclaim, for instance, the name of our favorite composer, for perhaps we do not at the moment know which he is; or we may have liked Chopin yesterday, but prefer Schumann to-day, and cannot in any case give any reason for preferring one to the other.

Confession of such a mental condition subjects us to being charged with inconsequence and inconsistency, — two qualities which cannot be tolerated in a discussion club. So there is nothing left but to sit in silence, and regret the halcyon days when inconsequence and inconsistency were considered a part of feminine charm; or else, when, having no opinion, speak we must, to defend the lack of one as eloquently as we may.