It appears to me, however, that the true impulse toward authorship
does not arise from a desire to please any one, but rather from a
strong consciousness of something definite to say, whether people
will listen or not. I can honestly assert that I have never
manufactured a novel, and should I do so I am sure it would be
so wooden and lifeless that no one would read it. My stories have
come with scarcely any volition on my part, and their characters
control me. If I should move them about like images they would be
but images. In every book they often acted in a manner just the
opposite from that which I had planned. Moreover, there are unwritten
stories in my mind, the characters of which are becoming almost
as real as the people I meet daily. While composing narratives I
forget everything and live in an ideal world, which nevertheless
is real for the time. The fortunes of the characters affect me
deeply, and I truly believe that only as I feel strongly will the
reader be interested. A book, like a bullet, can go only as far as
the projecting force carries it.

The final tests of all literary and art work are an intelligent
public and time. We may hope, dream, and claim what we please,
but these two tribunals will settle all values; therefore the only
thing for an author or artist to do is to express his own individuality
clearly and honestly, and submit patiently and deferentially to
these tests. In nature the lichen has its place as truly as the
oak.

I will say but a few words in regard to the story contained in this
volume. It was announced two years ago, but I found that I could
not complete it satisfactorily. In its present form it has been
almost wholly recast, and much broadened in its scope. It touches