The wonderful thing to me is, not that there is so much desire in
the world to express our little portion of the joy, the grief, the
mystery of it all, but that there is so little. I wish with all my
heart that there was more instinct for personal expression; Edward
FitzGerald said that he wished we had more lives of obscure
persons; one wants to know what other people are thinking and
feeling about it all; what joys they anticipate, what fears they
sustain, how they regard the end and cessation of life and
perception, which waits for us all. The worst of it is that people
are often so modest; they think that their own experience is so
dull, so unromantic, so uninteresting. It is an entire mistake. If
the dullest person in the world would only put down sincerely what
he or she thought about his or her life, about work and love,
religion and emotion, it would be a fascinating document. My only
sorrow is that the amateurs of whom I have spoken above will not do
this; they rather turn to external and impersonal impressions,
relate definite things, what they see on their travels, for
instance, describing just the things which any one can see. They
tend to indulge in the melancholy labour of translation, or employ
customary, familiar forms, such as the novel or the play. If only
they would write diaries and publish them; compose imaginary
letters; let one inside the house of self instead of keeping one
wandering in the park! The real interest of literature is the
apprehending of other points of view; one spends an immense time in
what is called society, in the pursuit of other people's views; but
what a very little grain results from an intolerable deal of chaff!
And all because people are conventional and not simple-minded;
because they will not say what they think; indeed they will not as
a rule try to find out what they do think, but prefer to traffic