themselves to you gradually, that they did not begin the entertainment
with fireworks. In short, look at literature as you would look at
life, and you cannot fail to perceive that, essentially, the style
is the man. Decidedly you will never assert that you care nothing for
style, that your enjoyment of an author's matter is unaffected by his
style. And you will never assert, either, that style alone suffices
for you.

If you are undecided upon a question of style, whether leaning to
the favourable or to the unfavourable, the most prudent course is to
forget that literary style exists. For, indeed, as style is understood
by most people who have not analysed their impressions under the
influence of literature, there _is_ no such thing as literary style.
You cannot divide literature into two elements and say: This is matter
and that style. Further, the significance and the worth of
literature are to be comprehended and assessed in the same way as the
significance and the worth of any other phenomenon: by the exercise
of common-sense. Common-sense will tell you that nobody, not even a
genius, can be simultaneously vulgar and distinguished, or beautiful
and ugly, or precise and vague, or tender and harsh. And common-sense
will therefore tell you that to try to set up vital contradictions
between matter and style is absurd. When there is a superficial
contradiction, one of the two mutually-contradicting qualities is of
far less importance than the other. If you refer literature to the
standards of life, common-sense will at once decide which quality
should count heaviest in your esteem. You will be in no danger of
weighing a mere maladroitness of manner against a fine trait of
character, or of letting a graceful deportment blind you to a
fundamental vacuity. When in doubt, ignore style, and think of the
matter as you would think of an individual.