vigorously, as forcibly as one can; if one does this sincerely,
one's own personality will make the style; and thus I feel that
people whose aim is to write vigorously should abstain from even
reading authors whose style affects them strongly. Stevenson
himself dared not read Livy; Pater confessed that he could not
afford to read Stevenson; he added, that he did not consider his
own style better than the style of Stevenson--rather the reverse--
but he had his own theory, his own method of expression,
deliberately adopted and diligently pursued. He therefore carefully
refrained from reading an author whom he felt unconsciously
compelled to imitate. The question of style, then, is one which a
writer who desires originality should leave altogether alone. It
must emerge of itself, or it is sure to lack distinctiveness. I saw
once a curious instance of this. I knew a diligent writer, whose
hasty and unconsidered writings were forcible, lively, and lucid,
penetrated by his own poetical and incisive personality; but he set
no store by these writings, and if they were ever praised in his
presence, he said that he was ashamed of them for being so rough.
This man devoted many years to the composition of a great literary
work. He took infinite pains with it; he concentrated whole
sentences into epithets; he hammered and chiselled his phrases; he
was for ever retouching and rewriting. But when the book at last
appeared it was a complete disappointment. The thing was really
unintelligible; it had no motion, no space about it; the reader had
to devote heart-breaking thought to the exploration of a paragraph,
and was as a rule only rewarded by finding that it was a simple
thought, expressed with profound obscurity; whereas the object of
the writer ought to be to express a profound and difficult thought
clearly and lucidly. The only piece of literary advice that I have
ever found to be of real and abiding use, is the advice I once