presents. He need no longer regard his self-complacencies with the least hesitation. Entrenched in victorious convictions, he is intent upon giving battle and not upon listening to himself or other people. He cannot admit to himself that he is a mere egotist whose development has exceeded the speed limits; he can only justify himself by asserting that he represents the natural outcome of an inevitable fundamental. If he is a critic, he flogs all artists whose work fails to blend into his masterful outlook; he insists that the delicately fantastic poet should be a philosopher, that the philosopher lacks a delicate spontaneity, that all creations should not be regarded in the light of their apparent aim but should be attacked because they lack something which they did not strive to accomplish. In other words, a note of persistent censure, and not of illuminating appreciation, grips his criticisms. To escape this situation the critic would not be forced to pat all artists on the shoulder and beam with a meaningless impartiality. On the contrary, he could simply ignore all artists whose creations gave him no compelling interest and devote his energies to a searching interpretation of all work commanding his respect. His occupation of knocking down straw dummies throws little light upon the trends and specific limitations of individual artists. Instead of chiding the trend of the artist, the critic should praise or blame it for what it is and present all other trends as something which the artist may have overlooked and not as foundations which he should have attained.
But, alas, if criticism lost its gesture of brilliant infallibility, the professional critic would cease to exist, since he derives his sustenance and authority from pointing to incontrovertible standards. He would have to adopt the role of an immersed appreciator appealing to men whose elements resemble his. He would pack up his crate of indisputable laurel wreaths and use in their place a series of friendly handshakes and unheated discussions. Whether a transition of this sort would demand the millennium is beside the question. When the critic looks upon the artist as a stimulating lure or a being to whom he can give no attention, and not as a splendid target, criticism will attain a wide and exhilarating function. At present it is merely the superior voice of those who dwell upon an imaginary mountain peak, but it can be an ardently searching descent into the valley.
