MODERN FICTION V.WOOLF. Though we have learnt about making machines, we havent learnt anything about making literatura!

tura! Mr.Wells, Mr Bennet, Mr Galsworthy: their existence in the flesh, their work has a living. Every day imperfection which had us with is choose. Wells, Bennet, Galsworthy: exited so many hopes, disappointed so persistently.: thanking them for having shown no what they might have done best have not done.. Materialists: concerned with the body. 3 different targets: Wells: cloud of clay mixed with the purity of his imagination. Excellent. craftsmanship: external details where they live, how they live what kind of clothing they dress up. The acting to which they travel so luxuriously becomes more and more unquestionable an eternity of bliss spent in the very best of Brighton. Wells: promotion scientific knowledge it can be scarcely be said of Mr. Wells that he is a materialist in the sense that he takes too much delight in the solidity of his fabric. Galsworthy: social sense improving Society through his novels. He is a materialist, from sheer goodness of heart, taking upon his shoulders the work that ought to have been discharged by government officially. they write of unimportant things_ that they spent immse skill and immense industry making the trivial and the transitory appear. The true and the enduring (she doesnt want to do this) Bennett: life escapes and perhaps without life nothing else is worth while is a confession of vagueness to have to move. Whether we call it life or spirit, truth or reality, this is the essential thing, has moved off or an refused to be contained any longer in such ill filling vestments as we provide to resemble the vision in our mind and spirit.. Bennet: labour misplaced to the extent of obscuring the light of the conception. The writer seems constrained, not by his own free will but by some powerful and unscrupulous tyrant who has to provide a plot , to provide comedy, tragedy, love, interest and a air of probability. The tyrant is obeyed , the novel is done to a turns. An ordinarymind on an ordinary day:stream of consciousness ( they way they portrait reality). Myriad of impressions: turmoil, fantastic, evanescent, engraved with the shapeness of steel. Incessant shower of innumerable atoms . Life is not a series of giglamis systematically arranged, life is a luminous halo, a semitransparent envelope surrounding us from the beginning of consciousness to the end. It is not the task of novelist to convey this varying. This unknown and uncircumscribed spirit, whatever aberration or complexity It may display. Let us record the atoms as they fail upon the mind in the order in which they fail, let us trace the patterns, however disconnected and incoherent in appearance. ( Mr. Joyce is spiritual : he is concerned at all costs to reveal the flictering of that innermost flame which flashes its messages through the brain and in order to preserve it as he disregards with complete courage whatever seems to him. Adventititious: whether it be probability or coherence or any other of these signposts which for generations have send to support the imagination of a reader when called upon to imagine what he can neither touch nor see. Wanting life for itself: It fails because of the comparative poverty of the artists mind,

Method: any method is right, every method is right, that expresses what we wish to express, if we are writers, that brings us closer to the novelist intention if we are readers. For the moderns, that the point of interest lies very likely in the dark places pf psychology, the emphasis is upon something hitherto ignored at once a different outline of form becomes necessary, difficult for us to group imcomprehensible to our predecessor. Russian: Tchekov: emphasis in laid upo such unexpected places that at first it seems as if there were no emphasis at all. Tchekov has choosen this and the other and placed them together to compose something new: they see further than we do and without our grass impediment of vision. The voice of protest is the voice of another and an ancient civilization which seems to have bred In us the instinct to enjoy and flight rather them to suffer and understand. English fiction from Sterne to Meredith bear witness to our natural delight in humour and comedy, Infinite probabilities of art: no limit to the horizon and that nothing no method, no equipment even of the wildest: is forbidden , but only fossils and pretence the proper stuff of fiction does not exist. (Fieldind/ Auster: had made their best without the tools modernists have.)