I agree to some extent with my imaginary English
reader. American literary historians are perhaps prone to view their own
national scene too narrowly, mistaking prominence for uniqueness. They do
over-phrase their own literature, or certainly its minor figures
. And Americans do swing from aggressive overphrase of their literature
to an equally unfortunate, imitative deference. But then, the English themselves
are somewhat insular in their literary appraisals. Moreover, in fields where
they are not pre-eminent — e.g. in painting and music — they too alternate between boasting
of native products and copying those of the
Continent. How many English paintings try to look as though they were done
in Paris; how
many times have we read in articles
that they really represent an English “tradition” after all.
To
speak of American literature, then,
is not to assert that it is completely unlike that of Europe.
Broadly speaking, America
and Europe have kept step. At any given moment
the traveller could find examples in both of the same
architecture, the same styles in dress, the same books
on the shelves. Ideas have crossed the Atlantic
as freely as men and merchandise, though sometimes more slowly. When I refer to
American habit, thoughts, etc., I
intend some sort of qualification to precede the word, for frequently the
difference between America and Europe (especially England) will be one of
degree, sometimes only of a small degree. The amount of divergence is a subtle
affair, liable to perplex the Englishman when he looks at America. He is
looking at a country which in important senses grew out of his own, which in
several ways still resembles his own — and which is yet a foreign country. There
are odd overlappings and abrupt unfamiliarities: kinship yields to a sudden
alienation, as when we hail a person across the street, only to discover from
his blank response that we have mistaken a stranger for a friend.