there existed a notion that style is something supplementary to,
and distinguishable from, matter; a sort of notion that a writer who
wanted to be classical had first to find and arrange his matter, and
then dress it up elegantly in a costume of style, in order to please
beings called literary critics.

This is a misapprehension. Style cannot be distinguished from matter.
When a writer conceives an idea he conceives it in a form of words.
That form of words constitutes his style, and it is absolutely
governed by the idea. The idea can only exist in words, and it can
only exist in one form of words. You cannot say exactly the same thing
in two different ways. Slightly alter the expression, and you slightly
alter the idea. Surely it is obvious that the expression cannot
be altered without altering the thing expressed! A writer, having
conceived and expressed an idea, may, and probably will, "polish it
up." But what does he polish up? To say that he polishes up his
style is merely to say that he is polishing up his idea, that he has
discovered faults or imperfections in his idea, and is perfecting it.
An idea exists in proportion as it is expressed; it exists when it
is expressed, and not before. It expresses itself. A clear idea is
expressed clearly, and a vague idea vaguely. You need but take your
own case and your own speech. For just as science is the development
of common-sense, so is literature the development of common daily
speech. The difference between science and common-sense is simply one
of degree; similarly with speech and literature. Well, when you "know
what you think," you succeed in saying what you think, in making
yourself understood. When you "don't know what to think,"
your expressive tongue halts. And note how in daily life the
characteristics of your style follow your mood; how tender it is when
you are tender, how violent when you are violent. You have said to