They are asking for
circulations and audiences that were never considered by any artist
until the last few generations. And when they do not get them, they
are disappointed.
Those who catch on, like Sinclair Lewis in "Main Street," are men who
have succeeded in projecting definitely what great numbers of other
people were obscurely trying to say inside their heads. "You have said
it for me." They establish a new form which is then endlessly copied
until it, too, becomes a stereotype of perception. The next pioneer
finds it difficult to make the public see Main Street any other way.
And he, like the forerunners of Sinclair Lewis, has a quarrel with the
public.
This quarrel is due not only to the conflict of stereotypes, but to
the pioneering artist's reverence for his material. Whatever the plane
he chooses, on that plane he remains. If he is dealing with the
inwardness of an event he follows it to its conclusion regardless of
the pain it causes. He will not tag his fantasy to help anyone, or cry
peace where there is no peace. There is his America. But big audiences
have no stomach for such severity. They are more interested in
themselves than in anything else in the world. The selves in which
they are interested are the selves that have been revealed by schools
and by tradition. They insist that a work of art shall be a vehicle
with a step where they can climb aboard, and that they shall ride, not
according to the contours of the country, but to a land where for an
hour there are no clocks to punch and no dishes to wash.
Pages:
157
158
159
160
161
162
163
164
165
166
167
168
169
170
171
172
173
174
175
176
177
178
179
180
181