rules the world. He wishes--I judge by what he reads--to make
sentiment at least ninety per cent efficient, even if a dream-
America, superficially resemblant to the real, but far different
in tone, must be created by the obedient writer in order to
satisfy him. His sentiment has frequently to be sentimentalized
before he will pay for it. And to this fault, which he shares with
other modern races, he adds the other heinous sin of
sentimentalism, the refusal to face the facts.

This sentimentalizing of reality is far more dangerous than the
romantic sentimentalizing of the "squashy" variety. It is to be
found in sex-stories which carefully observe decency of word and
deed, where the conclusion is always in accord with conventional
morality, yet whose characters are clearly immoral, indecent, and
would so display themselves if the tale were truly told. It is to
be found in stories of "big business" where trickery and rascality
are made virtuous at the end by sentimental baptism. If I choose
for the hero of my novel a director in an American trust; if I
make him an accomplice in certain acts of ruthless economic
tyranny; if I make it clear that at first he is merely subservient
to a stronger will; and that the acts he approves are in complete
disaccord with his private moral code--why then, if the facts
should be dragged to the light, if he is made to realize the exact
nature of his career, how can I end my story? It is evident that
my hero possesses little insight and less firmness of character.
He is not a hero; he is merely a tool. In, let us say, eight cases
out of ten, his curve is already plotted. It leads downward--not
necessarily along the villain's path, but toward moral
insignificance.