In the world of writing, many terms that should be illuminative have
become meaningless. So often has the barren been called "pregnant,"
the chill of death "the breath of life," the atrophied "pulsating,"
that when we really come upon a work with beating heart we find it
difficult to give it place that has not already been stuffed to
suffocation with misplaced dummies.

We seat it at table with staring wax figures and bid it to join the
feast. There is no exclusion act in art, no passport bureau, not even
hygienic segregation.

In writing the briefest introduction to Tolstoi's work, I am appointed
by the publisher, a sort of reception committee of one to escort the
work to some fitting place where it may enjoy the surroundings and
deference it deserves.

The place to which I escort it is built of words, but what words have
been left me by the long procession of previous committees? Where they
have been truthfully used they have been glorified, and offer all the
rarer material for my structure, but how often have they been
subjected to base use. Perhaps some day we will learn the proper
respect of such simple words as love and truth and life, and then when
we meet them in books we shall know how to greet them.

The study of _Redemption_ is so simple that it needs no illumination
from me. The characters may walk in strange lands without
introduction. They are part of us. Fedya is in all of us. His one cry
"There has always been so much lacking between what I felt and what I
could do" instantly makes him brother to all mankind. His simultaneous