heir relations, and the technical resources of
its writer are precisely the same as those of the writer who deals
predominately with the more concrete physical facts of life.

It would be interesting to go at some length into this question of
romance, all its connotations and implications. In particular, there is
an antithesis in common thought, with romanticism and realism the two
opposed members, which it would not be too dull to discuss. But the
discussion would not give much light to one who desires to acquire a
knowledge of the mechanics of fiction, long or short. It is permissible
to call a realist one who transcribes predominately physical details,
and it is permissible to call a romanticist one who transcribes
predominated [typo for "predominantly"?] spiritual details, but in both
cases the basic technique is identical. The realist can confine himself
to physical facts because his story deals largely with the everyday
actualities of life, and its subordinate spiritual values will be felt
by a reader through inference from the facts. The romanticist must state
spiritual facts directly because they are the very stuff and essence of
his story. He is none the less a realist if there are spiritual
actualities--an indisputable proposition--and if he states them as they
exist for him.

The critical discussion that treats realism and romanticism as opposed
artistic philosophies is so confused that it would serve no useful
purpose to go into the matter here. What little I have to say on the
subject will be said in the next chapter. But it is not inappropriate to
call attention to the fact that every story conceived--in Stevenson's
phrase--from within outwards, the only genesis for a work of art, is
merely a subjective reality; it never happened. Perhaps it is so
essentially commonplace that it probably has happened sometime; perhaps
it is so little abnormal that very possibly it has happened. Or perhaps
it may be of such a nature that it never could have happened. In any
event, whatever the nature of the story, its verity and reality as a
fiction depend solely upon its writer's elaborative and executive
powers. If his hand falter, tangibility and concreteness in the matter
of the story will not save it, will not make it seem real to a reader.
The lives of most men are commonplace, but the relatively few lives that
are not commonplace are as real and actual as those that follow beaten
paths. In the lives of most, the spi