No author who has ever known the exultation of sending the Press into an hysterical tumult of protest, of moral panic, of involuntary and frantic confession of sin, of a horror of conscience in which the power of distinguishing between the work of art on the stage and the real life of the spectator is confused and overwhelmed, will ever care for the stereotyped compliments which every successful farce or melodrama elicits from the newspapers. Give me that critic who rushed from my play to declare furiously that Sir George Crofts ought to be kicked. What a triumph for the actor, thus to reduce a jaded London journalist to the condition of the simple sailor in the Wapping gallery, who shouts execrations at Iago and warnings to Othello not to believe him! But dearer still than such simplicity is that sense of the sudden earthquake shock to the foundations of morality which sends a pallid crowd of critics into the street shrieking that the pillars of society are cracking and the ruin of the State at hand.
George Bernard Shaw, ‘The Author’s Apology’, preface to 1902 edition of Mrs Warren’s Profession (1894), repr. in Works (London: Constable & Co., 1930, vol. 7, Plays Pleasant and Unpleasant 1, pp. 152-3.
This term is so much more fun than last. I love journalism.
(M’boy’s sister auditions for drama school today. So very excited.)