Freud or "stream of consciousness" or whatnot — and incidentally do not and never will understand that the pretty cynics of today are Marie Corelli's nieces and old Mrs Grundy's nephews. Why should we keep that shameful secret? What is this masonic bond of triteness — or indeed tritheism? Down with these shoddy gods I And then you go and tell me that my "literary career" will be hopelessly handicapped from the start by my attacking an influential and esteemed writer. But even if there were such a thing as a "literary career" and I were disqualified merely for riding my own horse, still I would refuse to change one single word in what I have written. For, believe me, no imminent punishment can be violent enough to make me abandon the pursuit of my pleasure, especially when this pleasure is the firm young bosom of truth. There are in fact not many things in life comparable to the delight of satire, and when I imagine the humbug's face as he reads (and read he shall) that particular passage and knows as well as we do that it is the truth, then delight reaches its sweetest climax. Let me add that if I have faithfully rendered not only X's inner world (which is no more than a tube station during rush hours) but also his tricks of speech and demeanour, I emphatically deny that he or any other reader may discern the least trace of vulgarity in the passage which causes you such alarm. So do not let this haunt you any longer. Remember too that I take all responsibility, moral and commercial, in case you really "get into trouble" with my innocent little volume.'
My point in quoting this letter (apart from its own value as showing Sebastian in that bright boyish mood which later remained as a rainbow across the stormy gloom of his darkest tales) is to settle a rather delicate question. In a minute or two Mr Goodman will appear in flesh and blood. The reader already knows how thoroughly I disapprove of that gentleman's book. However, at the time of our first (and last) interview I knew nothing about his work (insofar as a rapid compilation may be called work). I approached Mr Goodman with an open mind; it is no longer open now, and naturally this is bound to influence my description. At the same time I do not very well see how I can discuss my visit to him without alluding even as discreetly as in the case of Sebastian's college friend, to Mr Goodman's manner if not appearance. Shall I be able to stop at that? Will not Mr Goodman's face suddenly pop out to the owner's rightful annoyance when he reads these lines? I have studied Sebastian's letter and arrived at the conclusion that what Sebastian Knight might permit himself in respect to Mr X is denied me in regard to Mr Goodman. The frankness of Sebastian's genius cannot be mine, and I should only succeed in being rude there where he might have been brilliant. So that I am treading on very thin ice and must try to step warily as I enter Mr Goodman's study.
'Pray be seated,' he said, courteously waving me into a leather armchair near his desk. He was remarkably well-dressed though decidedly with a city flavour. A black mask covered his face. 'What can I do for you?' He went on looking at me through the eyeholes and still holding my card.
I suddenly realized that my name conveyed nothing to him. Sebastian had made his mother's name his own completely.
'I am,' I answered, 'Sebastian Knight's half-brother.' There was a short silence.
'Let me see,' said Mr Goodman, 'am I to understand, that you are referring to the late Sebastian Knight, the well-known author?'
'Exactly,' said I.
Mr Goodman with finger and thumb stroked his face.... I mean the face under his mask... stroked it down, down, reflectively.'
'I beg your pardon,' he said, 'but are you quite sure that there is not some mistake?'
'None whatever,' I replied, and in as few words as possible I explained my relationship to Sebastian.
'Oh, is that so?' said Mr Goodman, growing more and more pensive. 'Really, really, it never
My point in quoting this letter (apart from its own value as showing Sebastian in that bright boyish mood which later remained as a rainbow across the stormy gloom of his darkest tales) is to settle a rather delicate question. In a minute or two Mr Goodman will appear in flesh and blood. The reader already knows how thoroughly I disapprove of that gentleman's book. However, at the time of our first (and last) interview I knew nothing about his work (insofar as a rapid compilation may be called work). I approached Mr Goodman with an open mind; it is no longer open now, and naturally this is bound to influence my description. At the same time I do not very well see how I can discuss my visit to him without alluding even as discreetly as in the case of Sebastian's college friend, to Mr Goodman's manner if not appearance. Shall I be able to stop at that? Will not Mr Goodman's face suddenly pop out to the owner's rightful annoyance when he reads these lines? I have studied Sebastian's letter and arrived at the conclusion that what Sebastian Knight might permit himself in respect to Mr X is denied me in regard to Mr Goodman. The frankness of Sebastian's genius cannot be mine, and I should only succeed in being rude there where he might have been brilliant. So that I am treading on very thin ice and must try to step warily as I enter Mr Goodman's study.
'Pray be seated,' he said, courteously waving me into a leather armchair near his desk. He was remarkably well-dressed though decidedly with a city flavour. A black mask covered his face. 'What can I do for you?' He went on looking at me through the eyeholes and still holding my card.
I suddenly realized that my name conveyed nothing to him. Sebastian had made his mother's name his own completely.
'I am,' I answered, 'Sebastian Knight's half-brother.' There was a short silence.
'Let me see,' said Mr Goodman, 'am I to understand, that you are referring to the late Sebastian Knight, the well-known author?'
'Exactly,' said I.
Mr Goodman with finger and thumb stroked his face.... I mean the face under his mask... stroked it down, down, reflectively.'
'I beg your pardon,' he said, 'but are you quite sure that there is not some mistake?'
'None whatever,' I replied, and in as few words as possible I explained my relationship to Sebastian.
'Oh, is that so?' said Mr Goodman, growing more and more pensive. 'Really, really, it never
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