Style and the Man

In Short

This book offers a series of informal, reflective essays on the nature of literary style. Moving through a wide array of English and American masters—from the clarity of Newman and the moral earnestness of Hawthorne to the rhythmic vivacity of Stevenson and the complex abstractions of Henry James—the author explores why some writers command our attention while others fail to resonate. It is a thoughtful, unpretentious guide intended to provoke discussion rather than dictate rules, ultimately celebrating the power of the written word to capture the truth of human experience.

The Story

The narrative begins as a meditation on the reader’s relationship with books. The author posits that our appreciation for style is dictated more by mood, temperament, and personal prejudice than by objective criteria. He rejects the idea that writing can be taught through correspondence courses, arguing instead that true style arises from a foundation of sensibility, rhythm, and a commitment to veracity.

As the discussion progresses, the author examines the "galley-slave toil" required to produce great literature. Through the work of Antoine Albalat, he reveals how the masters—Pascal, Flaubert, and others—achieved their polish only after countless erasures and emendations. He contends that writing is not merely the primary act of composition, but a process of brooding revision where the "inevitable word" is eventually found. This truthfulness, he argues, is the final test of any art, whether it be the simplicity of Jesus’ parables or the complex, atmospheric prose of a novelist like Thackeray.

The journey continues through a "roll call" of literary figures. Matthew Arnold is lauded for his irony and mournful melody, while John Henry Newman is held up as a paragon of clarity, despite the theological focus of his work. In the American context, Nathaniel Hawthorne is presented as the primary artist of the nation—a figure of noble, august command whose control over words moves imitators to despair. James Russell Lowell is analyzed as the most cultivated of American scholars, though the author notes his tendency toward intellectual arrogance compared to the more austere, guiding warnings of Emerson.

The latter portion of the book turns to the mechanics of influence and the art of the orator. Figures like Ruskin, Macaulay, and Stevenson are weighed for their impact on the reader, with the author highlighting Stevenson’s confessed method of "playing the sedulous ape" to his predecessors. The discussion then shifts to the "imperial" style of contemporary figures like Henry James and the evolving nature of public address in America, moving from the passionate, bloody rhetoric of Thomas Corwin to the hyperbolic, stark declarations of Theodore Roosevelt.

The book concludes by acknowledging the impossibility of fully charting the vast sea of literature. The author suggests that while we can observe the great ships of genius from afar—Meredith, Eliot, Kipling—the ultimate lesson for any writer lies in the English Bible. He posits that its directness and rugged power provide the most essential training for anyone seeking to master the possibilities of our mother tongue.

How It Unfolds

The nature of the craft The author establishes that style is a personal, untaught gift, akin to the movement of wind over a wheat field. He argues that the bulk of literature allows readers to choose what pleases them, dismissing the perennial complaint that public taste is in decline.

The labor of the pen Drawing on the manuscripts of French masters, the author illustrates that "easy writing makes hard reading." He emphasizes that inspiration is not just the first burst of creativity, but the patient, corrective work that refines it.

The test of truth The narrative shifts to the requirement that style must serve reality. Whether in romance or realism, the prose must create "bone and sinew" so that the reader can feel the truth of the character or scene.

Critiquing the masters The author provides a comparative tour of literary figures, balancing the "mournful music" of Arnold against the "crystal clearness" of Newman. He contrasts Hawthorne’s artistic stature with the "superficial cleverness" occasionally found in Lowell’s essays.

The evolution of voice The analysis moves toward the modern era, examining the "stammering" complexity of Henry James and the "battleship" force of Kipling. The author scrutinizes the difference between written eloquence and the "glow and passion" of the spoken word.

The final foundation The voyage ends with a tribute to the English Bible. The author argues that its narrative simplicity and weight serve as the true bedrock for any writer serious about the future of the language.

The People

The author acts as a guide, constantly weighing the strengths and weaknesses of literary giants. John Henry Newman is depicted as a man of scrupulous precision whose intellect, rather than emotion, drove his work. Nathaniel Hawthorne stands as a solitary, commanding figure, a "melancholy" artist who never produced a clumsy sentence. James Russell Lowell is presented as a brilliant, versatile mind whose work spans the range from academic stiffness to "imperishable sunniness," though he is sometimes marred by an intellectual coldness. Henry James is characterized as an "immensely provocative" figure whose later, nearly incomprehensible style reflects a mind so abundant it struggles to find sufficient symbols for its vision. Rudyard Kipling appears as a man of action, using a rugged, biblical style to bridge the gap between literature and life. Each figure is evaluated not just for their output, but for how they navigated the tension between their personal temperament and the demands of their medium.

In Its Own Voice

"Style can no more be taught than the shadows of clouds across June meadows, or the play of wind over wheat fields can be directed or influenced by the hand of man."

The author dismisses the idea that writing can be learned from correspondence schools, emphasizing that style is an organic, innate quality.

"Simplicity, when it is not a careless gift of the Muse, is the last and most painful achievement of conscientious self-denial."

While discussing Izaak Walton, the author highlights the immense effort required to produce prose that sounds natural and artless.

"The words of Jesus are marvelously simple; there were undoubtedly those among his contemporaries who could contrive more splendid orations."

The author uses the simplicity of biblical language to contrast the power of truth with the hollow ornamentation of many professional orators.

What It's Really About

At its core, the book explores the tension between the desire for artistic expression and the constraints of language. It asks whether style is a conscious construction or an subconscious flow, and how an author can reconcile the need for technical "felicity" with the requirement for "veracity." The author argues that style is not the "chiffon flounces" of composition, but a reflection of the writer’s soul. He questions if criticism is a secondary, parasitic activity—the work of those who merely "nibble the hay"—or a valid pursuit. Ultimately, the book is a defense of the idea that good writing must be both intellectually rigorous and emotionally resonant, serving as a mirror to the writer’s own character.

Why Read It Today

This book is a rewarding companion for anyone who cares deeply about the architecture of a good sentence. It feels like a long, fireside conversation with a well-read friend who is honest enough to admit his own prejudices and bold enough to punch at the giants of literature. The prose is warm and measured, reflecting the very qualities of "grace and melody" that the author celebrates in others.

Readers should be aware that the book is rooted in a specific early 20th-century context, frequently referencing Victorian and American Transcendentalist writers who were standard for the author’s generation. The style is occasionally dense with literary allusions, and the author does not shy away from the somewhat haughty critical tone common to the era. If you are looking for a practical "how-to" manual, you will be disappointed; this is not a guide to grammar, but a guide to the feeling of great writing. It will be most appreciated by those who enjoy the digressive, opinionated essays of the past and who find comfort in the belief that, despite the noise of the modern world, the pursuit of a "true" and "truthful" style remains a noble, if impossible, goal.