Add to this that I have always had the greatest objection to writing
anything which those who were not acquainted with the facts might call
a _romance_ or a _tale._ We think very ill of a man who offers us as a
truth some single statement which we find he knew to be false. Now what
can we think of a man who tells three volumes, or even one, full of just
such lies? Of course the _prima-facie_ aspect of the case is, that he
is guilty of the most monstrous impertinence; and, in point of fact,
I confess the greatest disgust towards any person of whom I hear the
assertion that he has _written a story,_ unless I hear something more
than that. He is bound to show extenuating or justifying circumstances,
as much as the man who writes what he calls "poems." For, as the world
is full of real histories, and every day in every great city begins and
ends a score or half a dozen score of tragic dramas, it is a huge piece
of assumption to undertake to make one out of one's own head. A man
takes refuge under your porch in a rain-storm, and you offer him the use
of your shower-bath!
Also, I cannot help remembering, that, on the whole, I have been more
intensely bored with works of fiction,--beginning with "Gil Blas," and
ending with--on the whole, I won't even mention it,--than I ever was by
the Latin Grammar or Rollin's History.
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