I must admit, as one to whom contemporary literature is constantly submitted for criticism, that the only thing that ever prejudices me against a book is the lack of literary style; but I can quite understand how any ordinary critic would be strongly prejudiced against a work that was accompanied by a premature and unnecessary panegyric from the publisher.  A publisher is simply a useful middleman.  It is not for him to anticipate the verdict of criticism.

I may, however, while expressing my thanks to the ‘London Editor’ for drawing my attention to this, I trust, purely American method of procedure, venture to differ from him in one of his criticisms.  He states that he regards the expression ‘complete’ as applied to a story, as a specimen of the ‘adjectival exuberance of the puffer.’  Here, it seems to me, he sadly exaggerates.  What my story is is an interesting problem.  What my story is not is a ’novelette’—­a term which you have more than once applied to it.  There is no such word in the English language as novelette.  It should not be used.  It is merely part of the slang of Fleet Street.

In another part of your paper, Sir, you state that I received your assurance of the lack of malice in your critic ‘somewhat grudgingly.’  This is not so.  I frankly said that I accepted that assurance ’quite readily,’ and that your own denial and that of your own critic were ‘sufficient.’

Nothing more generous could have been said.  What I did feel was that you saved your critic from the charge of malice by convicting him of the unpardonable crime of lack of literary instinct.  I still feel that.  To call my book an ineffective attempt at allegory, that in the hands of Mr. Anstey might have been made striking, is absurd.

Mr. Anstey’s sphere in literature and my sphere are different.

You then gravely ask me what rights I imagine literature possesses.  That is really an extraordinary question for the editor of a newspaper such as yours to ask.  The rights of literature, Sir, are the rights of intellect.

I remember once hearing M. Renan say that he would sooner live under a military despotism than under the despotism of the Church, because the former merely limited the freedom of action, while the latter limited the freedom of mind.

You say that a work of art is a form of action.  It is not.  It is the highest mode of thought.

In conclusion, Sir, let me ask you not to force on me this continued correspondence by daily attacks.  It is a trouble and a nuisance.

As you assailed me first, I have a right to the last word.  Let that last word be the present letter, and leave my book, I beg you, to the immortality that it deserves.—­I am, Sir, your obedient servant,

Oscar Wilde.

16 Tite street, S.W., June 28.

V.  ‘DORIAN GRAY’