CHAPTER 17. ACQUIRED BOON.

January 17, 1917.

"Perchance Joseph Conrad's Lord Jim? Or perhaps Herman Melville's Typee or even Omoo?" quoth a certain Italian bookseller with an indescribable obsequiousness, whose parents had, some time ago, on the occasion of this thirty-year-old bookseller's fifth birthday, hastily moved with the aforementioned from the confines of Sicily to the bosom of the North American continent.

"Joseph Conrad? Herman Melville? Lord Jim? Typee? Omoo?" uttered with particular disdain that very man whose fortune was akin to that of the well-known Thomas Wolsey, yet, unlike other extraordinarily wealthy gentlemen who for some reason inhabited that time, he always acquired the books necessary for his mind—though by no means for his heart—with his own hands, and not with the aid of the exceedingly long arms of all-powerful intermediaries: it should be noted that all manner of discussions with booksellers were an integral part of such acquisitions. "Is it possible that your reading taste is entirely based solely on the opinion of critics, and consequently, on criticism itself? Is it possible that the mundane thinking of the latter is the cornerstone of your reasoning, and consequently, of your words? Criticism is foolish, my friend, and critics are veritable fools! Shamelessly and cynically, with an extraordinary frenzy, they are prepared to praise the works of Conrad, including his Lord Jim… they, not in the least ashamed, with an exceptional fervor are ready to exalt the most mundane works of Herman Melville, namely Typee and Omoo… they, with astonishing audacity, are prepared to flatter every wretched scribbling that the pen of Joshua Slocum and the brush of Emilio Salgari for some reason produced… prepared to act in such a way at the very hour when the greatest works from the truly exceptional hand of Frederick Marryat remain, undoubtedly, thanks to those very critics, in the boundless waters of Lethe, which are already brimming with greatness. Fools! Veritable fools! I despise, most sincerely I despise these priests of literature—I despise them because of their exceptional depravity, yet, it must be admitted that my disdain for the aforementioned by no means testifies to my disdain for literature, for my God! Madmen! How foolish they are to so ferociously praise the ordinary and despise the exceptional! The Ghost Ship remains in oblivion at the very hour when in every bookstore in America, verily, no more and no less than the names… Lord Jim, Typee, Omoo… resound thunderously! Is this just? Of course not! And this is not surprising! Society prefers to blindly follow the path of criticism—they feel an extraordinary sympathy for all that is easily understood, and consequently, for all that is so ardently exalted by critics: it is for this reason that you have offered me the works of Melville and Conrad today… and it is for this reason that you have not offered me the works of Marryat! The Ghost Ship is one of the most significant works in the history, as well as the life, of all maritime literature… and foolish shall he be who argues with this judgment… and only he who has not read it beyond the first chapter is capable of arguing with it… or who has read it all, but understood nothing… but comprehended and realized nothing: it is precisely thus that criticism is born—it is born of misunderstanding, ignorance, and folly! But to what end, to what end is this entire monologue? You yearn to know? I merely wished to tell you that criticism exalts mediocrity and despises genius! But what concern is this to you? I came to you today to acquire something exceptional, however, this time, my acquisition will by no means be The Ghost Ship."

"Then, perhaps, you wish to acquire one of those very works whose author is Walter Scott? Perhaps Quentin Durward?" the aforementioned Italian bookseller, now consciously unctuous, carefully handed the aforementioned book in a costly folio to that extraordinarily sophisticated purchaser with his crooked fingers, which were like five Moorish scimitars: today he was driven by only one desire… and this desire was the urge to sell, to sell at least something.

"If the name of Walter Scott had not graced the title page, as well as the folio, of this book," quoth the said purchaser, accepting the aforementioned book from the bookseller's hands, "then any attentive reader would, beyond all doubt, assert, without hesitating in the appropriateness and truthfulness of his words, that the said work is the creation of the exceptional mind of Alexandre Dumas… though… at certain moments its style… indeed, indeed!… is reminiscent of the sophistication of the Marquis de Sade’s style—that very style intentionally used by his mind in The Secret History of Isabella of Bavaria. Quentin Durward! The authorship of Scott in this work is testified to only by an inexhaustible, and therefore exceedingly deep, love for Scotland! Walter Scott! Being a landsknecht of historical literature, he inadvertently awakened and continues to awaken in the hearts of readers not only an indescribable reverence, but also fear… fear of the future!… Walter Scott! If I wished to learn something about the lives of kings, I would rather turn to the anecdotes of the contemporaries of these kings than to the works of Walter Scott… and, even more so, than to the works of Alexandre Dumas! Alexandre Dumas! His immense fame, undoubtedly, was the key cause of his misfortunes… and this could not but be reflected in his works! How many people desired, most enviously desired, to attain the fame of Alexandre Dumas… but how many, how many desired, most sincerely desired, to reach those very limits of the belles-lettres Olympus upon which his exceptional genius quite comfortably resided? The former are countless; the latter are many. However, I confess to you that today I have come here by no means to acquire the works of Dumas, and even less so to acquire the works of Scott—his works are perfectly known to me: Waverley, Rob Roy, Old Mortality—the plot of these works is based on crimes against the state… and the works themselves are similar to one another to the same degree as the Osbaldistone brothers resemble one another…"