Why do we read the old critics? For ideas? Seldom. Style? More often. Anecdote? Always, when there is any. Spirit? We delight in it. Facts? Never. No, you will never find facts—at least about such a metaphysical concept as art—correctly stated in books, because there is no way of stating them correctly. And the evasion of facts is an exact science which has yet to become popular with the critics, although it is always popular with readers, as the continued success of Berlioz's Mémoires goes to show. We read the old critics to find out about the critics, not about the subjects on which they are writing. Consequently, it is only the critics who have been interesting personalities who are read through many generations.
As an addendum, I might state that interest in art is fatal. An enthusiastic essay will kill anything. Spontaneity and freshness do not withstand praise. Art must be devoid of self-consciousness. A certain famous actress once told me that she never liked to have people particularize in their enthusiasm about one of her performances. When, she said, they tell me that such and such a gesture, such and such a tone of voice, is the important moment in one of my interpretations, I can never repeat it without remembering their praise, and, involuntarily, something of the original freshness has departed.
I remember another occasion on which Peter talked about the subject that most interested him.
