id me to frequent. And more than that, there
might be things about the people who liked my book which I should not
like; superficial things such as manner or look; I might not even like
their opinions on certain points; but now, by writing this book, the
best part of me, I think, has made friends with the best part of them.
All art depends upon a certain kinship of spirit between the man who
produces and the men who perceive; and just as a painter may speak to
kindred spirits in a picture, or as a preacher may show his own heart
in a sermon, so a writer may reveal himself in a book, if he is so
inclined. The best kind of friendship is made in that way, the
friendship that is not at the mercy of superficial appearances, habits,
modes of breeding, conventions, which erect a barrier in this
mysterious world between the souls of men.

Perhaps one of the greatest interests and pleasures we have in life is
the realising of different temperaments and different points of view.
It is not only interesting, it is wholesome and bracing. It helps us
out of egotism; it makes us sympathetic; and I wish with all my heart
that people would put more of their own unadulterated selves into
books; that would be real, at all events. But what writers so often do
is to tell the adventures of imaginary people, write plays where
persons behave as no one ever behaves in real life; or they turn to
what is called serious literature, and write a history of things of
which no one can ever know the truth; or they make wise and subtle
comments on the writings of great authors, covering them with shining
tracks, as when snails crawl over a wall and leave their mucus behind
them. And there are many other sorts of books which I need not define
here, some of them useful, no doubt, and some of them wearisome enough.
But the books of which we can never have enough are the books which
tell us what people are really like, because our true concern is with
the souls of men; and if we are all bound, as I believe we are, upon a
progress and a pilgrimage, though the way is dark and the goal remote,
the more we can know of our fellow-pilgrims the better for ourselves.
This knowledge can teach us, perhaps, to avoid mistakes, or can make us
ashamed of not being better than we are; or, best of all, it may lead
us to love and pity those who are like ourselves, to bear their burdens
when we can, to comfort, to help. I think it would be far better if we
could talk more si