Style should for this very reason never be subjective, but objective; and it will not be objective unless the words are so set down that they directly force the reader to think precisely the same thing as the author thought when he wrote them.  Nor will this result be obtained unless the author has always been careful to remember that thought so far follows the law of gravity that it travels from head to paper much more easily than from paper to head; so that he must assist the latter passage by every means in his power.  If he does this, a writer’s words will have a purely objective effect, like that of a finished picture in oils; whilst the subjective style is not much more certain in its working than spots on the wall, which look like figures only to one whose phantasy has been accidentally aroused by them; other people see nothing but spots and blurs.  The difference in question applies to literary method as a whole; but it is often established also in particular instances.  For example, in a recently published work I found the following sentence:  I have not written in order to increase the number of existing books. This means just the opposite of what the writer wanted to say, and is nonsense as well.

He who writes carelessly confesses thereby at the very outset that he does not attach much importance to his own thoughts.  For it is only where a man is convinced of the truth and importance of his thoughts, that he feels the enthusiasm necessary for an untiring and assiduous effort to find the clearest, finest, and strongest expression for them,—­just as for sacred relics or priceless works of art there are provided silvern or golden receptacles.  It was this feeling that led ancient authors, whose thoughts, expressed in their own words, have lived thousands of years, and therefore bear the honored title of classics, always to write with care.  Plato, indeed, is said to have written the introduction to his Republic seven times over in different ways.[1]

[Footnote 1:  Translator’s Note.—­It is a fact worth mentioning that the first twelve words of the Republic are placed in the exact order which would be natural in English.]

As neglect of dress betrays want of respect for the company a man meets, so a hasty, careless, bad style shows an outrageous lack of regard for the reader, who then rightly punishes it by refusing to read the book.  It is especially amusing to see reviewers criticising the works of others in their own most careless style—­the style of a hireling.  It is as though a judge were to come into court in dressing-gown and slippers!  If I see a man badly and dirtily dressed, I feel some hesitation, at first, in entering into conversation with him:  and when, on taking up a book, I am struck at once by the negligence of its style, I put it away.