There are methods of so-called presentation, I believe among novelists who have appeared to flourish--that offer the situation as indifferent to that support; but I have not lost the sense of the value for me, at the time, of the admirable Russian's testimony to my not needing, all superstitiously, to try and perform any such gymnastic.
Other echoes from the same source linger with me, I confess, as unfadingly--if it be not all indeed one much-embracing echo.

It was impossible after that not to read, for one's uses, high lucidity into the tormented and disfigured and bemuddled question of the objective value, and even quite into that of the critical appreciation, of "subject" in the novel.
One had had from an early time, for that matter, the instinct of the right estimate of such values and of its reducing to the inane the dull dispute over the "immoral" subject and the moral.

Recognising so promptly the one measure of the worth of a given subject, the question about it that, rightly answered, disposes of all others--is it valid, in a word, is it genuine, is it sincere, the result of some direct impression or perception of life ?--I had found small edification, mostly, in a critical pretension that had neglected from the first all delimitation of ground and all definition of terms.

The air of my earlier time shows, to memory, as darkened, all round, with that vanity--unless the difference to-day be just in one's own final impatience, the lapse of one's attention.

There is, I think, no more nutritive or suggestive truth in this connexion than that of the perfect dependence of the "moral" sense of a work of art on the amount of felt life concerned in producing it.