For his churlishness is really very trying and painful,
even to the man's wife, though a moment's tenderness will make her
and you forget it. The man really is churlish, and much more often
than he is tender. His demeanour is merely just to his character.
So, when a writer annoys you for ten pages and then enchants you
for ten lines, you must not explode against his style.
You must not say that his style won't let his matter "come out."
You must remember the churlish, tender man. The more you reflect,
the more clearly you will see that faults and excellences of style
are faults and excellences of matter itself.


One of the most striking illustrations of this neglected truth
is Thomas Carlyle. How often has it been said that Carlyle's matter
is marred by the harshness and the eccentricities of his style?
But Carlyle's matter is harsh and eccentric to precisely the same degree
as his style is harsh and eccentric. Carlyle was harsh and eccentric.
His behaviour was frequently ridiculous, if it were not abominable.
His judgments were often extremely bizarre. When you read
one of Carlyle's fierce diatribes, you say to yourself:
"This is splendid. The man's enthusiasm for justice and truth
is glorious." But you also say: "He is a little unjust
and a little untruthful. He goes too far. He lashes too hard."
These things are not the style; they are the matter.
And when, as in his greatest moments, he is emotional and restrained
at once, you say: "This is the real Carlyle." Kindly notice
how perfect the style has become! No harshnesses or eccentricities now!
And if that particular matter is the "real" Carlyle,
then that particular style is Carlyle's "real" style.
But when you say "real" you would more properly say "best."