nderstand! Let me know where I am getting to!" In a
word, it wants a finality different from that which Art can give. It
will ask the artist, with irritation, what his solution, or his lesson,
or his meaning, really is, having omitted to notice that the poor
creature has been giving all the meaning that he can, in every sentence.
It will demand to know why it was not told definitely what became of
Charles or Mary in whom it had grown so interested; and will be almost
frightened to learn that the artist knows no more than itself. And if by
any chance it be required to dip its mind into a philosophy that does not
promise it a defined position both in this world and the next, it will
assuredly recoil, and with a certain contempt say: "No, sir! This means
nothing to me; and if it means anything to you--which I very much
doubt--I am sorry for you!"

It must have facts, and again facts, not only in the present and the
past, but in the future. And it demands facts of that, which alone
cannot glibly give it facts. It goes on asking facts of Art, or, rather,
such facts as Art cannot give--for, after all, even "flower of author" is
fact in a sort of way.

Consider, for instance, Synge's masterpiece, "The Playboy of the Western
World!" There is flower of author! What is it for mankind at large? An
attack on the Irish character! A pretty piece of writing! An amusing
farce! Enigmatic cynicism leading nowhere! A puzzling fellow wrote it!
Mankind at large has little patience with puzzling fellows.

Few, in fact, want flower of author. Moreover, it is a quality that may
well be looked for where it does not exist. To say that the finality
which Art requires is merely an enwrapping mood, or flower of author, is
not by any means to say that any robust fellow, slamming his notions down
in ink, can give us these. Indeed, no! So long as we see the author's
proper person in his work, we do not see the flower of him. Let him
retreat himself, if he pretend to be an artist. There is no less of
subtle skill, no less impersonality, in the "Bergeret" volumes than in
"Le Lys Rouge." No less labour and mental torturing went to their
making, page by page, in order that they might exhale their perfume of
mysterious finality, their withdrawn but implicit judgment. Flower of
author is not quite so common as the buttercup, the Californian poppy, or
the gay Texan gaillardia, and for that very reason the finality it gives
off will nev