But there are other stories in this book. There is that screaming farce
called "The Suicides in the Rue Sombre." Now, then, you Magazine
zealots, speak up and tell me truly: is there anything too difficult
for you in this? If so, the psychology of what is called "public taste"
becomes a subject not suited to public discussion.

The foregoing remarks and considerations apply equally to such stories
as "The Dress Clothes of M. Pomponnet" and "Tricotrin Entertains."
There are other stories which delight me, as, for example, "Little-
Flower-of-the-Wood": but this jerks us back again to the essential Mr.
Merrick: he who demands collaboration.

There are, again, other stories, and yet others; but to write down all
their titles here would be merely to transcribe the index page of the
book. Neither the reader nor I can afford to waste our time like that.

I have said nothing about the technical qualities of Mr. Merrick's
work. I don't intend to do so. It has long been a conceit of mine to
believe that professional vendors of letterpress should reserve their
mutual discussions of technique for technical occasions, such as those
when men of like mind and occupation sit at table, with a bottle
between them.

I am convinced that Mr. Merrick is a very great and gifted man, deeply
skilled in his profession. I can bring forth arguments and proofs to
support this conviction; but I fail utterly to see why I should do so.
To people who have a sense of that which is sincere and fresh in
fiction, these facts will be apparent. To them my arguments and
illustrations would be profitless. As for those honest persons to whom