The Best British Short Stories of 1922 HTML version

When Edward J. O'Brien asked me to cooperate with him in choosing each year's best
English short stories, to be published as a companion volume to his annual selection of
the best American short stories, I had not realized that at the end of my arduous task,
which has involved the reading of many hundreds of stories in the English magazines of
an entire year, I should find myself asking the simple question: What is a short story?
I do not suppose that a hundred years ago such a question could have occurred to any
one. Then all that a story was and could be was implied in the simple phrase: "Tell me a
story...." We all know what that means. How many stories published today would stand
this simple if final test of being told by word of mouth? I doubt whether fifty per cent
would. Surely the universality of the printing press and the linotype machine have done
something to alter the character of literature, just as the train and the telephone have done
not a little to abolish polite correspondence. Most stories of today are to be read, not told.
Hence great importance must be attached to the manner of writing; in some instances, the
whole effect of a modern tale is dependent on the manner of presentation. Henry James
is, possibly, an extreme example. Has any one ever attempted to tell a tale in the Henry
James manner by word of mouth, even when the manner pretends to be conversational? I,
for one, have yet to experience this pleasure, though I have listened to a good many able
and experienced tale-tellers in my time.
Now, there is a great connection between the manner or method of a writer and the matter
upon which he works his manner or method. Henry James was not an accident. Life, as
he found it, was full of trivialities and polite surfaces; and a great deal of manner--style, if
you like--is needful to give life and meaning to trivial things.
And James was, by no means, an isolated phenomenon. In Russia Chekhov was creating
an artistic significance out of the uneventful lives of the petty bourgeoisie, whose hitherto
small numbers had vastly increased with the advent of machinery and the
industrialization of the country; as the villages became towns, the last vestiges of the
"romantic" and "heroic" elements seemed to have departed from contemporary Russian
literature. As widely divergent as the two writers were in their choice of materials and
methods of expression, they yet met on common ground in their devotion to form, their
painstaking perfecting of their expressions; and this tense effort alone was often enough
the very life and soul of their adventure. They were like magicians creating marvels with
the flimsiest of materials; they did not complain of the poverty of life, but as often as not
created bricks without straw. Not for them Herman Melville's dictum, to be found in
Moby Dick: "To produce a mighty book you must choose a mighty theme."
Roughly, then, there are two schools of creative literature, and round them there have
grown up two schools of criticism. The one maintains that form is everything, that not
only is perfect form essential, and interesting material non-essential, but that actually
interesting material is a deterrent to perfect expression, inasmuch as material from life,