xample of the impressions of Bjoernson's childhood. I
do not think critics have ever quite realized the extent to which
writers of fiction--especially those who use a personal style--depend
upon the remembered impressions of childhood. Such impressions--no
matter how fantastic--are an author's firsthand stock: and in using
them he comes much closer to nature than when he collects any number
of scientifically approved data to maintain some view of life which he
has derived from books. Compare _Flags are Flying_ with _Arne_, and
you will see my point. The longer book is ten times as realistic in
treatment, and about one-tenth as true to life.

MR. GEORGE MOORE

March 31, 1894. "Esther Waters."

It is good, after all, to come across a novel written by a man who can
write a novel. We have been much in the company of the Amateur of
late, and I for one am very weary of him--weary of his preposterous
goings-out and comings-in, of his smart ineptitudes, of his solemn
zeal in reforming the decayed art of fiction, of his repeated failures
to discover beneficence in all those institutions, from the Common Law
of England to the Scheme of the Universe, which have managed to leave
him and his aspirations out of count. I am weary of him and of his
deceased wife's sister, and of their fell determination to discover
each other's soul in a bottle of hay. Above all, I am weary of his
writings, because he cannot write, neither has he the humility to sit
down and learn.

Mr. George Moore, on the other hand, has steadily labored to make
himself a fine artist, and his training has led him through many
strange places. I should guess that among living novelists few have
started with so scant an equipment. As far as one can tell he had, to
begin with, neither a fertile invention nor a subtle dramatic
instinct, nor an accurate ear for language. A week ago I should have
said this very confidently: after reading _Esther Waters_ I say it
less confidently, but believe it to be true, nevertheless. Mr. Moore
has written novels that are full of faults. These faults have been
exposed mercilessly, for Mr. Moore has made many enemies. But he has
always possessed an artistic conscience and an immense courage. He
answered his critics briskly enough at the time, but an onlooker of
common sagacity could perceive that the really convincing answer was
held in reserve--that, as they say in America, Mr. Moore "allowed" he
was going to write a big nove