As Berry and I Were Saying by Dornford Yates

as opposed to bent: a speaker’s actual words as opposed to a report of what he said.”
    “Take Treasure Island ,” said Berry. “That work of art would lose quite half its charm if Jim didn’t tell it himself.”
    Jill looked at me.
    “Is that why you always do it?”
    “In my romances? Yes. At least, I suppose it is. I started like that in Blind Corner, and never looked back.”
    “Stevenson knew,” said Berry. “ For such tales, it is the right way. But, of course, it limits the narrator, because he can only report what he saw or heard. Don’t you find that embarrassing sometimes?”
    “I can’t say I do,” said I. “But I know what you mean. I suppose I’ve got into the knack. Of course, one character sometimes reports to the narrator what he has done.”
    “That’s perfectly natural. But Stevenson did get stuck.”
    I laughed.
    “I know. In Treasure Island the doctor takes over the tale. But Stevenson does it so beautifully that it does no damage at all.”
    “You don’t always do it, Boy. Use the first person, I mean.”
    “Oh, no. Not in most short stories – I don’t know why. And not in some of the others. This Publican , for instance. I couldn’t have done it there.”
    “I hated This Publican ,” said Jill.
    “The best thing I ever did.”
    “ Rowena was so awful.”
    “True to life, my darling.”
    “Have you ever known a woman like that?”
    “No. But she combined the worst characteristics of three women that I did know.”
    “Which is your worst book?” said Berry.
    “That answer I keep to myself.”
    My sister addressed her husband.
    “You are a brute,” she said.
    “No, he’s not,” said I. “Some books must be weaker than others, as every writer knows.”
    “An author can judge his own work?”
    “If he can’t, he’s not a craftsman. If a silversmith makes a poor tankard, he knows it’s a bad one far better than anyone else. But he must be a silversmith.”
    “Meaning…?”
    “Many people who cannot write, write books today. For all I know, they think they’re terribly good. In fact, they’re beneath contempt.”
    “That’s a true saying,” said Berry. “What I don’t understand is why the publisher takes such filthy tripe. He’s the retailer, and the retailer must know. Bauble and Levity wouldn’t accept a dud tankard.”
    “I know,” said I, “but some retailers would.”
    “Listen,” said Daphne. “You said just now that you could judge your own work. Don’t you care what reviewers say?”
    “I care very much. Whether it’s good or bad, I value an honest review. So long as they’re honest, I value the bad ones most. I can’t pretend I enjoy them, but – well, to more than one unknown reviewer, I owe a great debt; for he has picked out some fault to which I was blind, and I’ve taken very good care not to – What d’you do with a fault? ‘Commit’ it?”
    “‘Serve’,” said Berry.
    “‘Commit’ must serve. Not to commit it again. Punch made me wince once; but, even while I was smarting, I was immensely obliged.”
    “‘Honest’?” said Jill.
    “Sorry,” I said. “But I’m bound to put that in. But malice can be instantly recognized and should be ignored. I don’t think you got much in the old days, but now the reviewer by profession seems to be rather rare. Nowadays all sorts review books – very often, I fear, authors. And that, for obvious reasons, is utterly wrong.”
    “Dog eating dog?” said Berry.
    “It can amount to that. And now let me please say this – reviewers as a whole have been far kinder to me than I have deserved. Of the debt I owe them, I am extremely conscious. They have, of course, helped my sales; but, what is of much more importance, they have encouraged me. Only a very few have been malicious. When they are, I summon the memory of things which real reviewers have said. St John Ervine and, for all I said about authors, Compton Mackenzie himself, though he can’t have known it was I. And