This short book is in 2 parts.
First is a lecture given in the late 1880’s by Sir Walter Besant, an English novelist of some renown, but clearly below Hardy and Meredith on the English writing totem pole.
Besant’s lecture is a treatise on why the novelist’s artistic status should be elevated to the level of painters and sculptors, largely because writers better illustrate ethical morality, and raise social consciousness much more so than any other art form.
He embellishes his position to state there should be schools for writing, just as there are institutes of learning for painting, music, sculpting, etc., so that ignorance of the art of writing a novel might diminish.
Second is a rebuttal, albeit polite, from the author, Henry James.
James purposes that it’s all about appreciation of the art form = when you look at a painting or statue, your evaluation of it, how it moves you, what it speaks to you; is decisive, complete, and immediate. However, with a book, “there is danger of its hurting you before you know it. Literature should be either instructive or amusing … artistic pre-occupations [such as] the search for form, contribute to neither end, [rather] interfere, indeed, with both.”
And there you have the mist of the argumentation. As you might expect, the treatment expands and does go deeper.
I’m surprised this debate arose at all. Given it is taking place in the late 19th to early 20th centuries, but the novel as an art form, as well as the endearing endeavor of a work by serious authors should be readily apparent, in any age.
Having said that, both gentlemen are learned on their subject of discourse, are salient in their POVs, both discuss the important elements and construction of a novel well, both analyses still hold up, and both are as relevant today as they were then.
Notwithstanding my reservation regarding its necessity- it was articulate, well presented, and somewhat thought provoking for its subject matter- particularly for an author.
I give it a borderline recommendation largely due to its brevity; had it been much longer it would have become somewhat monotonous, and consequently somewhat dull.
I leave you with a well-said passage that likely sums up a position many enthusiasts of good fiction would agree with; Besant’s final thought on well-crafted novels:
“I, for one, feel irritated when critics begin to appraise, compare, and to estimate them: there is nothing, I think, we can give but admiration that is unspeakable, and gratitude that is silent. This silence proves more eloquently than words how great, how beautiful an Art, is that of Fiction.”