The art of fiction in English literature

I would not have attached such a comprehensive title to this short article, which necessarily lacked any form of completeness, on a subject whose thorough treatment would take us too far, on which Mr. Walter Bazant spoke under the same title in a lecture he gave. at the Al-Malaki seems to indicate that the art of fiction arouses the interest of many people, who fill such lectures, who try to show him those who practice this art, and therefore I am eager to let this auspicious opportunity pass without to add. a few words, in favor of that interest which should That Mr. Walter Bezant raised him, it is very encouraging that he expressed some of his views on the mystery of storytelling.

In it is a proof of life and curiosity, on the part of the novelists as well as on the part of the readers, for a short time ago one might have assumed that the English novel was unsuitable for discussion or questionable, as the French say, since there does not appear to be any theory, doctrine, or theory behind it. a sense of self, a sense that it is an expression of an artistic belief, born of choice and comparison, because I do not claim that it was necessarily worse then as a result, because I lack the courage to claims that the form of the novel, as seen, for example, by Dickens and William Thackeray, was of some kind. suffering from her lack of this naivety, she no doubt intends to make up for the lost benefits, for during the same period a comfortable feeling spread, a pleasant mood, that the novel is a novel and all that we need to do is to digest it by reading, but that in the recent period, the period of the rise of the English novel, and for some reason there were signs indicating the return of vitality to the novel , and it seems that the era of discussion has begun to some extent , and art lives from discussion And from experience, from the love of the means There is a belief that those times when one finds nothing useful to say about the art he practices or a reason for his preference for it over others types of activities to justify are not times of development, although they can be glorious times, but can be somewhat sluggish.

Practicing any art successfully is a matter of joy for the soul, but discussing it with a theory is also interesting and interesting, and although there is much more to it, I doubt the possibility of any real success. achieved, without the existence of a solid underlying belief, discussion, suggestions and expression All opinions are fruitful if they are honest and sincere, and mr. Bazant gave a wonderful example of this by talking about what he thinks is the way a novel should be written, and how it should also be published, as his opinion on the art he spoke in his lecture also deals with it. .There is no doubt that other workers in the same field will continue to address the subject and shed light on it with their experience, and the result will undoubtedly be an increase in our interest in telling what we feared would not be achieved, over a period of time, which would become a vital, active interest, which does not cease to question.

The novel must take itself seriously for the audience to take it seriously, for there is no doubt that the myth that the novel is a sinner died in England, but its spirit remains in that indirect view of any story that not recognized in one way. or others that it is not merely a joke, and even the most hilarious novels feel somewhat the weight of this judgment which was formerly directed against literary lightness, for lightness does not always succeed in being accepted by men, and people expect still, though they are ashamed to say it, that the production will progress What is nothing more than a play, and is the story different? By justifying its existence or an apology from it, that is, to refusing to pretend to try to represent and portray life in reality, and this is of course what any sensible and attentive story refuses to do, as it quickly realizes that what is given to it is out of indulgence as a result of this condition, is nothing but an attempt to strangle her, an attempt to disguise her true face behind a mask of generosity, the traditional hostility to the novel, as candid as it was narrow-minded, and what it as less useful for di considered the eternal human side of the play, was in fact less contemptuous of it. From this the only justification for the existence of as we see in the photographer’s painting, it will have reached a strange state, no one asks the picture to be humble in order to forgive its existence, and the similarity between the artist’s art and the novelist’s art is in my opinion a complete agreement The source of revelation in them is one and the process of creativity in each of them is the same process by different means, and their success is also one, and they can learn from each other, and they can each other explained and supported, their cause is one and the glory of the one is the glory of the other, Muslims believe that the image is something unholy, but a long time has passed since any Christian thought so, and therefore it seems more strange that there remain traces of doubt in the Christian mind, though convincingly, in the story, which is the sister of the picture to this day. Since the moment, i.e. the insistence just as the image is the truth, the novel is history, and it is the only general description with which we can describe the novel. History also allows it to portray life, but as it is like photography, it does not require an apology, and the material of the novel is like the material of history. Khazuna also in documents and records, and in order not to reveal himself, as they say, you must speak with confidence, in the tone of a historian. Seriously, and while reading many of Anthony Trollope’s pages, I have his lack of wisdom in this regard. He admits to the reader in a discursive paragraph that he and this good companion are deceiving themselves with the existence of something which does not really exist, and he admits that the events he tells did not really happen, and that he is able to direct his story in any direction the reader wants, and I confess that such a betrayal of the holy mission of the novelist seems to me a heinous crime, and that is what I mean by an attitude of apology, and it shocks me no differently when the speaker is Trollope than when the speaker is Gibbon or McCauley.

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