I would not disparage a great writer by pointing to the fortunes of his offspring. One reason of Dostoevsky's appeal to the British mind is that he appears to satisfy the usual definition of genius; that is, an infinite capacity for taking no pains. On the other hand it is no good making a gospel of taking pains, either; if a writer has not the standard of perfection in himself, he will not acquire it from public agitation in favour of "technique." (I have even read in a newspaper article in this country, that the highest form of literary genius is indifferent to very careful execution. It is truer to say that every good writer will be careful about what is important for his purpose—but purposes vary indefinitely.) My own view is that Dostoevsky had the gift, a sign of genius in itself, for utilizing his weaknesses; so that epilepsy and hysteria cease to be the defects of an individual and become—as a fundamental weakness can, given the ability to face it and study it—the entrance to a genuine and personal universe. I do not suppose that Dostoevsky's struggles were fundamentally alien to Flaubert's. I cannot believe, at all events, that Dostoevsky was a muddle-headed soul-struggler any more than I can believe that Plato was an Oxford don. Of course, he sometimes parodies himself (his parodies are instructive); but anything, unless it is as well done as it can be done, may be ridiculous.
One writer, and indeed, in my opinion, the most interesting novelist in England—who has apparently been somewhat affected by Dostoevsky, is Mr D. H. Lawrence. Mr Lawrence has progressed—by fits and starts, it is true; for he has perhaps done nothing as good as a whole as Sons and Lovers. He has never yet, I think, quite surrendered himself to his work. He still theorizes at times when he should merely see. His theory has not yet reached the point at which it is no longer a theory, he still requires (at the end of Aaron's Rod) the mouthpiece for an harangue. But there is one scene in this book—a dialogue between an Italian and several Englishmen, in which one feels that the whole i1s governed by a creator who is purely creator, with the terrifying disinterestedness of the true creator. And for that we can forgive Mr Lawrence his subsequent lapse into a theory of human relationships.
