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I H S A N U G U R D E L I K A N L I , TO D O R D I M I T R O V, R O E N A A G O L L I
MULTIL ATER AL
DEVELOPMENT
BANK S
Governanc e and Financ e
Multilateral Development Banks
Ihsan Ugur Delikanli • Todor Dimitrov
Roena Agolli
Multilateral
Development Banks
Governance and Finance
Ihsan Ugur Delikanli Todor Dimitrov
Istanbul, Turkey Thessaloniki, Greece
Roena Agolli
Thessaloniki, Greece
This Palgrave Macmillan imprint is published by the registered company Springer International Publishing AG part
of Springer Nature.
The registered company address is: Gewerbestrasse 11, 6330 Cham, Switzerland
For our families and children as well as all children of the world.
Foreword
During several decades the benefits of multilateralism were taken for granted.
This is no longer the case. In this context, Multilateral Development Banks:
Governance and Finance is a very timely and valuable book that offers a rich
description of Multilateral Development Banks (MDBs), an assessment of
their roles, and a constructive critique with recommendations to enhance
their contribution to the development agenda.
A useful taxonomy of 25 MDBs is proposed and applied for the analysis of
these banks as a whole and by type of MDBs. Having worked for the three
different types of MDBs considered in the book, I can attest that this classifi-
cation makes sense.
This volume is an important contribution to the qualitative and quantita-
tive knowledge about MDBs practices and standards. It addresses misconcep-
tions concerning MDBs, provides a comprehensive review of governance and
funding issues that constrain MDBs’ effectiveness, and suggests means to
overcome those constraints.
It is to be noted that Chap. 3 provides an adequate presentation of the
important issue of additionality, whereas Chap. 5 presents a novel system of
MDB-specific governance principles, which is used in an assessment and in
identifying areas for improvement. It includes the standards developed for
independent evaluation by the MDBs’ Evaluation Cooperation Group
(ECG), considering also other areas relevant for MDBs.
The book concludes with a discussion on the future of MDBs, providing
ideas and suggestions for addressing complex problems, highlighting the
importance of improving governance and strengthening independent
vii
viii Foreword
ix
x Preface
r esponsibility for all errors and omissions and acknowledge the importance of
contributions by many other people.
The three authors worked jointly on the book upon the idea of Ihsan Ugur
Delikanli. Their primary contribution is as follows:
1 Introduction 1
3 Financial Dynamics 33
4 Current Governance 89
6 Clients’ Perspective 163
7 The Future 177
Glossary 193
Index 203
xiii
List of Figures
xv
xvi List of Figures
Fig. 3.12 Total loans, debt securities and equity investments (USD, billion).
Source: Authors’ compilation from MDBs’ annual reports 49
Fig. 3.13 Leverage ratio (%). Source: Authors’ compilation from MDBs’
annual reports 53
Fig. 3.14 Gross income from lending (%). Source: Authors’ compilation
from MDBs’ annual reports 59
Fig. 3.15 Return on equity (RoE, %). Source: Authors’ compilation from
MDBs’ annual reports 61
Fig. 3.16 Administrative costs ratio (Administrative Costs/Gross Income
from Lending and Treasury, %). Source: Authors’ compilation
from MDBs’ annual reports 62
Fig. 4.1 Governance structure 91
Fig. 6.1 Eligibility and concept review 169
Fig. 6.2 Appraisal and due diligence 170
List of Tables
xvii
1
Introduction
Rationale
Address Misconceptions, Clarify the Essence of MDBs
Despite existing publications and public discourse, the role, governance, and
potential of Multilateral Development Banks (MDBs) remain obscured by
fragmented and often inaccurate information. These institutions remain
poorly understood, implying the need for an open, comprehensive, and bal-
anced overview, going beyond history and data.
This book sheds light on a number of misconceptions regarding MDBs,
widely spread not only among the public, but even among MDBs’ stakehold-
ers such as counterparts, shareholders, managers, and staff. These misconcep-
tions include but are not limited to the following: (1) MDBs are UN agencies;
(2) MDBs are aid/grant/subsidy funds; (3) all MDBs are subsidiaries of the
World Bank; (4) MDBs are just international commercial/investment banks;
and (5) MDBs provide a key share of financing in some countries but there
are no tangible results.
Chapters 3, 4, and 5 (Financial Dynamics, Current Governance, and
Governance Principles) constitute the core of the book, providing insight for
the bumpy road ahead, outlined at the concluding Chap. 7 (The Future).
These chapters provide a comprehensive review of multiple governance and
funding issues that constrain MDBs’ effectiveness, presenting seven novel
governance principles (Chap. 5), followed by an assessment of reality against
those principles.
The book provides an overview of what the MDBs are often mistakenly
assumed to be, in order to reveal and clarify their distinct nature and modus
operandi, recent evolutions, toward future perspectives, covering all essential
aspects, including the most recent challenges to institutional governance and
finance. This is a timely and forward-looking response to the aggressive pres-
sures on multilateralism and development, fuelled by contemporary tides of
populism, nationalism, and protectionism, already affecting many MDBs and
other international institutions.
Methodology
The book has a specific focus on recent waves of criticism and discontent
with governance and results, both legitimate and ill-informed, that triggered
ad hoc reforms, as well as a proliferation of “new”, “green, lean, and clean”
MDBs. The recent motion of creating “alternative” new MDBs is subject of
a balanced assessment of pros and cons, with the ultimate objective of sug-
gesting feasible improvements in both the “old” and the “new” generations
of MDBs.
Approach
with key MDB staff and management, focusing on the departments involved
with institutional learning and memory—the Independent Evaluation depart-
ments. The analysis is also supplemented by interviews with key MDB bor-
rowers, to reflect their perspective. Most interviews were conducted in the
course of several years, within an ongoing MDB comparative research, cover-
ing 260 respondents from 19 MDBs.
The methodology, along with the main messages of each chapter, should
remain informative and relevant in the years to come, as the focus is on
how to improve MDBs’ functioning, looking at the cross-cutting groups
and issues. Hence, it is aimed at providing practice-based inspiration for
further debate regarding the MDB evolution, with a particular attention
on the need and obstacles to enhance old-fashion institutional governance,
in the light of recent efforts of last generation MDBs to challenge the more
traditional “old” development institutions (perceived as inefficient and
donor-dominated).
Overall, the methodology constitutes an interdisciplinary mapping pro-
cess, catalyzing insights from extensive reviews and discussions, involving the
following key elements: (1) MDB categorization based on geographical out-
reach; (2) development and application of MDB-specific governance assess-
ment framework (principles); (3) an assessment of the outreach and impact of
MDBs, based on key ex-post evaluation results; (4) a financial assessment
framework for MDBs, addressing inherent subsidies and privileges as unrec-
ognized risk mitigation instrument; and (5) evaluating the accessibility of
MDBs to borrowers through a borrower-based perspective. Details on the
approach regarding these five elements are presented below.
Unlike existing research that treats MDBs as banks, hereby they are
addressed by revealing the institutional aspects of their operations, going well
beyond the bank concept—toward high-profile self-regulated knowledge
banks, change agents, and franchise-based standard setters. These concepts
involve relevant comparisons of the three regional groups of MDBs, with a
focus on a feasible and sustainable governance-centered, rather than ad hoc,
reform agenda. The goal is to improve all or most MDBs through an evidence-
based advancement of values, management, staff, and governance, rather than
already known polar pressures that resulted in various stop-and-go reform
campaigns, triggering alarming staff disengagement and overall reform fatigue
across most MDBs.
4 I. U. Delikanli et al.
MDB Categorization
All MDBs are grouped by their regional coverage. This facilitates the process
of understanding and improving different institutions, based on common
denominators rather than extensive piecemeal approach. It is instrumental to
demonstrate the similarities and differences among groups, as well as key
issues and shortcomings without criticizing a particular individual institution.
The ultimate goal is to offer feasible improvements that acknowledge MDBs
as complex related institutions, providing additional value beyond mere
finance, unlike conventional banks. This mainly refers to the provision of
knowledge and public goods—hence arguing that MDBs are primarily knowl-
edge banks and role models that should be treated very differently from any
other financial institutions.
The categorization generally reflects the MDBs’ size and ambition and is
defined as follows:
1. Global MDBs lend to several continents, covering those almost entirely;
2. Regional MDBs lend to just one continent, covering it almost entirely;
3. Sub-regional MDBs focus on a specific region that is smaller than a
continent.
The very specific governance systems utilized by MDBs deserve central atten-
tion. For this reason, Chap. 4, dedicated to MDBs’ Current Governance,
followed by Chap. 5, which offers principles to elevate governance, are of
specific importance. The latter chapter is based on a methodology involving a
thorough process of reviewing and assessing respective governance systems
against a set of principles, developed by the authors. This is done at group
levels rather than at each MDB, but outlier cases are also addressed as a source
of insight, from both negative (risk) and positive (potential) perspectives.
Given the extensive experience and communication (including dedicated
interviews over the past four years) of the authors in dealing with those gov-
ernance systems within the MDBs, a particular attention is devoted to the less
obvious but very important details and practices of implementing the gover-
nance rules, as they have substantial implications, rarely understood. The
analysis is steered by a review of critical post evaluations at corporate/
institutional levels, in order to derive common issues.
Introduction 5
Financial Assessments
Borrower Perspective
overview of the eligibility and application process, it also reveals issues of frus-
tration and opacity that stem from an insufficient understanding of MDBs’
complexity. Ultimately, the chapter aims at helping potential and actual cli-
ents, with a focus on private sector borrowers, to navigate the unchartered
waters of MDB approval and project cycles.
The concluding Chap. 7 presents the actual and potential role of MDBs as
agents of global change, as institutions with sustainable impact, beyond the
mere objects of financing. This deals with their raison d’être and is built upon
the main messages and conclusions of earlier chapters, suggesting how MDBs
can better play this important role as a system of related institutions. Naturally,
MDBs as knowledge institutions are addressed in relation to the independent
evaluation function and the wealth of lessons registered, but not necessarily
learned. The focus is on how MDBs may further excel in providing first-rank
international leadership in high standards of norms and practices, across sec-
tors and countries, beyond ideologies and politics—a worthwhile challenge.
The chapter looks openly into the future of MDBs, in a global context, with
direct reference to technological advancements and the UN Sustainable
Development Goals, among other factors. It is a forward-looking reflection of
all other chapters, suggesting a feasible and comprehensive reform agenda
beyond the traps of the past. Key highlights include the need to elevate gov-
ernance, improve the use of independent evaluation, enhance engagement
with stakeholders, as well as ensure synergies across MDBs at a time of unprec-
edented technological and social shifts with high impact.
2
The Nature of MDBs
These examples illustrate the overlapping and relative nature of the categoriza-
tion, implying that it is utilized to facilitate the analysis rather than to assume
absolute boundaries across the three groups.
institutions that had to be created over the visions of John Maynard Keynes.
In 1942, White paved the path toward the fundamentals of a development
policy as he prepared a proposal for a “United Nations Stabilization Fund and
a Bank for Reconstruction and Development of the United and Associated
Nations” which would provide the basis for post-war international monetary
reform (Anderson-Gold 2011).
White considered the Keynes’ principles from a more general perspective
and used them in the US proposal to suggest national and international poli-
cies that would (1) foster economic growth by encouraging international eco-
nomic and monetary cooperation through the stabilization and regulation of
the national systems of exchange rates and (2) encourage economic and social
security in war-torn areas of Europe through rebuilding economic and finan-
cial infrastructure throughout massive supply of capital that will be needed for
reconstruction, relief, and economic recovery (Stiglitz 2003).
The proposal called for the creation of two related institutions with
resources, powers, and structure adequate to meet the major post-war needs.
For international currency matters, the International Monetary Fund (IMF)
was to be established, which would recommend and enforce rules to install a
system of convertibility of currencies and ensure a degree of exchange-rate
stability—indispensable for a multilateral system of payments and trade. For
assisting the economic development and reconstruction of post-war Europe,
the International Bank for Reconstruction and Development (IBRD) was to
be established—broadly recognized as the World Bank, with the purpose of
providing funding and technical assistance for the economic reconstruction of
war-ravaged areas of Europe, mainly by encouraging capital inflows into the
region from surplus countries (Lipscy 2015).
In 1944, the United Nations Monetary and Financial Conference took
place at the Mount Washington Hotel in Bretton Woods, New Hampshire.
The broadly referred to as Bretton Woods Conference agreed to regulate the
international monetary and financial problems after the conclusion of the
World War II, and sealed the negotiation for the establishment of the World
Bank and the IMF. The agreement is a milestone toward more orderly inter-
national relations and multilateralism on a global scale and toward having
agencies predominantly adapted to maintain such relationships. The United
States, of course, was and still is a dominant element.
With the Congress’ approval of the Marshall Plan in 1948, the US pre-
eminence was confirmed (Bordo and Eichengreen 2007). The organizational
patterns of the IMF and the IBRD gave birth to a new track of thought—
development diplomacy, where the American role was critical.
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useful, but on the whole a mean trade; often the fruit, and always
the parent of meanness in every mind that permanently follows it.”
And indeed in all critics there must be a marrow of conceit
stiffening the backbone. Else how could they—who fell out of the
ranks footsore on the march to battle—come along so complacently
when the fight is over, to talk to the soldiers covered with the grime
and sweat of their work, and tell them how easily it might all have
been done without soiling the pipeclay.
All critics however do not write merely from this motive. There are
many of course writing from the far higher motive of greed. Then
there are some few who do it for the rare fun of the thing—to enjoy
the intense annoyance it gives to foolish, sensitive artists—these are
the mud flingers and corner boys of the trade, and of course a few
critics have lived who played the game and knew it and brought a
message of heaven-sent sympathy to the artist. Maybe such a one
exists to-day, in some corner behind the clouds, struggling to let his
rays shine encouragement on honest endeavour.
But apart from the writings of critics vanity and conceit have
always been strong motives of authors. They are found especially in
schools of literature, where the form is preferred to the substance.
Take our eighteenth century writers and read the story of their lives.
Can it be denied that they were a vain crowd? Even Swift, Pope and
Addison—the greatest of them—were not without it. As for the
smaller fry, with their degrading squabbles and jealousies—their very
faces seem to me pitted with the small-pox of conceit. And
throughout this period you have one symptom;—the writer exalting
the letter above the spirit,—and when you find that, it is invariably
the indication of disease, and the disease is vanity.
This is not only the case in writing. It is so in nearly all pursuits.
When you begin to believe in technical excellence of form as an end
in itself, it is necessary to become to some extent narrow, vain and
conceited or you will not achieve your end. In those arts in which
form is more essential to the art than substance, vanity and conceit
are more commonly found. Thus actors, singers, dancers, and
schoolmasters are often not without vanity. You may notice, too, that
the minor technical pursuits of life produce a certain conceit. It is
occasionally observable in the semi-professional lawn-tennis
amateur. In a lesser degree too by many golfers the same vice is
sometimes displayed, but more often in the club-house and on the
first tee than during the progress of the game. When a man is
deeply bunkered style becomes a secondary consideration.
But generally speaking all writers who think literature an affair of
quantities, metres, syntax and grammatical gymnastics, all men who
reverence literary form rather than practical substance, are bound to
write in a spirit of vanity and conceit, which is the only petrol that
can push them along the weary road they have chosen. It oppresses
you to-day to find this spirit in nearly all the great writers of the
eighteenth century. How Oliver Goldsmith stands out amongst them
as the one great writer with a human heart; how we readers of to-
day love him and reverence him with an enthusiasm we cannot offer
to Addison himself.
But enough of conceit and vanity, let us turn to our second motive
—a far pleasanter and more everyday affair—greed. I should put
Shakespeare among the first and greatest whose motive was greed.
I cannot imagine anyone taking the trouble to write a play from any
other motive, certainly not from a lower motive. Shakespeare’s main
desire in life, if we may trust his biographers, was to become a
landowner in Warwickshire—possibly a county magistrate. What an
ideal chairman he would have made of a licensing bench. Would
Mistress Quickly’s license have been renewed? I doubt it.
Shakespeare wrote plays for the contemporary box office to make
money out of them and thrive. As Mr. Sidney Lee tells us he “stood
rigorously by his rights in all business relations.” There being in
those days no law of copyright he borrowed all he could from
common stock, added to it the wonderful flavouring of his own
personality and served up the immortal dramatic soup which
nourishes us to-day. After this fashion of borrowing, if Emerson be
right, the Lord’s Prayer was made. The single phrases of which it is
composed were, he says, all in use at the time of our Lord in the
rabbinical forms. “He picked out the grains of gold.” It is the same if
you think of it with Æsop’s fables, the Iliad and the Arabian Nights,
which no single author produced. And so must all great work be
done, for we are nothing of ourselves and if we do not take freely of
those who are gone before we can do naught. But only those have
the right to borrow who can embroider some new and glorious
pattern on the homely stuff they appropriate. Shakespeare had no
vanity and conceit; no doubt he wrote for the fun of the thing, as all
writers who are worth their salt must do, possibly—though I for one
doubt it—he knew of the message he was delivering to the world;
but that he wrote his plays primarily for greed, the few records of his
life that we possess seem to me to prove beyond reasonable doubt.
Unless, of course, you are mad enough to believe Bacon wrote the
plays. Then indeed the motive power of the author was greed—
greed of a baser sort than Shakespeare’s—for the great Lord
Chancellor never did anything that I know of, except a few trivial
scientific experiments, from any other motive.
But when I speak of Shakespeare and greed, I speak as a modern
and not as an Elizabethan. Greed in Shakespeare’s day meant the
greed of filthy lucre, the insatiate greediness of evil desires. It was
an insanitary word in those days. But greed to-day means something
quite otherwise. When I speak of greed as the main motive of
authorship I use the word, not with any old-fashioned dictionary
meaning, but in an up-to-date, clear-sighted, clarion, socialist sense.
You speak to-day—those of you who are in the movement—of the
greed of the capitalist, the greed of the employer. In this way I
speak of the greed of the author. The greed of anyone to-day is the
greed which urges him to endeavour to enrich himself and provide
for himself and his family by using his brains in producing things.
Incidentally he may employ a vast number of people with less brains
or no brains, incidentally he may ruin himself after he has used his
brains, and paid a large number of people in publishing the result of
his brain-work; but do not let us in an age of socialism gainsay that
it is pure greed to use your brains for the purpose of putting money
into your own pocket. It is true this kind of greed led to Columbus
discovering America—but if he had not done so how many fewer
capitalists there would have been. Sir Walter Raleigh, too, was a bad
instance of a man moved by greed; we cannot acquit Drake, or the
great Lord Burghley or even my own historical heroine the Maiden
Queen herself. The greed of Elizabethan England is a thing to
shudder at, if you are a real socialist, and Shakespeare, I fear, must
be found guilty from a modern standpoint of having written his plays
from the simple motive power of greed.
I am the more certain of this for the only Shakespearean play of
modern times “What the Butler Saw,” was written, I am ashamed to
say, from similar motives. I happen to know that this is a play after
Shakespeare’s own heart. I learned it in a vision. I am not a believer
in dreams myself, but there must be something in some of them,
and mine is worthy of the consideration of the Psychical Research
Society. It was after the first night of the Butler in London, and after
a somewhat prolonged and interesting supper with some of those
responsible for the production,—in psychical research supper should
always be confessed to,—that I had a curious dream of the people
who were present at the theatre. Many who appeared had actually
been present, others had not. Milton and Oliver Cromwell, both
came up to me and hoped it would not have a long run—
Wordsworth, I remember, wanted to know what the Butler really did
see, and Charles Lamb, winking at me, took him away to tell him. It
was then that Shakespeare came and patted me lightly on the
shoulder, saying “It’s all right, my young friend”—young of course
from Shakespeare’s point of view—“I couldn’t have done it better
myself.”
Many will wonder why this story has not long before this gone the
round of the press. The answer is that I am not a business man. I
once mentioned the dream to a spiritualist, who said that there was
no evidence that it was the shade of Shakespeare—it might have
been the astral body of one of the inhabitants of the Isle of Man. I
replied that then we should have heard of it long ago.
As an instance of dramatic justice it is interesting to know that the
production of this play costs its authors money. Incidentally it made
money for others, actors, actresses, scene-shifters, proprietors of
theatres, dramatic critics and the like, to the tune of tens of
thousands of pounds. Some day when I publish the play, as I hope
to do, I will set out in detail its financial side, which is quite as
amusing as the play itself. But the main point, which from a socialist
point of view is so entirely satisfactory, is that the brain-workers who
wrote it, and the capitalist who produced it lost over it; but that it
provided work and bread and cheese for a large number of people
who might otherwise have filled the ranks of the unemployed. It is a
fitting termination to the work of an author whose motive power is
greed. The only fear is that if this were always to happen, there
might come a time when there would be a shortage of authors ready
to supply food and wages for others at a cost to themselves.
Personally, I do not think this is all likely to occur, for authors seem
to me a class of persons who will always be actuated by vanity, and
a greed of so unintelligent and unbusinesslike a character that they
will go on writing for others, rather than themselves to the end of
time. I in no way regret the results of “What the Butler Saw.” I fear
my greed is of a very poor commercial standard. I had plenty of fun
for my money. It is something to have written a masterpiece, and it
is something better to have seen it beautifully acted. I am very poor
at taking the amusements of life seriously, and even when playing
golf I often find myself looking at the scenery instead of at the ball.
Indeed, I am not sure that I did write “What the Butler Saw,” from
any really high sense of greed, and that may account for its having
turned on me and bitten me financially. I have more than a half
belief that I wrote it for the fun of the thing.
And this brings me to my third motive of authorship, writing for
the fun of the things. All the best writing in the world—short of the
very highest and most sacred work—is done for the fun of the thing.
Some people prefer the phrase the love of the thing, and say it is
the love of the beautiful, or the love of mischief, or the love of
romance that moves them to writing. But I prefer to call it writing for
the fun of the thing, because that describes to me exactly what I
mean. All games should be played in this spirit, and writing is a far
less serious game with most of us than games like bridge or chess or
golf or cricket.
Charles Marriott—not the national novelist of our high seas, but
Marriott the modern—who has a gracious gift of hinting great ideas
in simple phrases and never shouts them at you, so that if you are a
deaf reader you do not always get the best out of him—Marriott says
in “The Remnant”: “Quite in the beginning, when men went out to
kill their enemies or their dinner, there was always one man who
wanted to stay, at home and talk to the women, and make rhymes
and scratch pictures on bones.” There are two great truths in this.
One is that the first author was an artist. He scratched pictures on
bones long before he made rhymes. Of course he did it for the fun
of the thing. There could be no other reason, the motives of vanity
and greed were not open to him. There was no publisher in the
cave-dwellers’ days to seize his bones, and pay him a royalty on
them, and build a big cave for himself out of the proceeds of the
speculation, whilst the bone-scratcher slept in the open. I think a
cave-artist had a good time. He enjoyed his life in his own way, and
I believe got better food for his work than many an artist of to-day.
But modern artists have forgotten the great truth that to paint well
you must paint for the fun of the thing, as the cave-man scratched
his bones, and as children draw to-day if you give them paper and
pencil, and don’t look on and worry them. Few artists now paint for
the fun of the thing without vanity or greed, but when they do they
sometimes find an echo in the shape of a patron as mad as
themselves, who buys pictures for the fun of the thing, and not
because the critics tell him that this or that is good. The recent
McCullough collection at Burlington House was worth showing
despite the sneers of the superior persons, because it was an honest
collection of what one man had really liked. What annoyed the critics
was that a man had bought the pictures because he loved them, and
not because he had been told he ought to love them.
And then there is another great truth in what Marriott says. The
cave-artist stayed at home to make rhymes and pictures for the
women whilst the men went out to get the dinner. How few writers
remember that the real judges of literature are and must be the
women of the country. Women necessarily fill the churches and
lecture halls, and the lending libraries, and the theatres, and the
picture galleries—only in music halls do men predominate. It is for
women primarily that all literature and art are made to-day, just as
they were in the cave-dweller’s time. To follow out this interesting
theme and account scientifically for the phenomenon would take a
longer essay than this. Moreover, one would run up against the
problem of the women who want to vote and many other dangerous
questions. The cave-dwellers really knew all about it. The men went
out to get the dinner in those days merely because there were no
shops in Cave Street—but the researches of all professors show that
even in those days the women ordered the dinner. And the voice
that orders the dinner, and the hand that rocks the cradle will always
rule the world.
If you want to test the value of writing for the fun of the thing in
relation to the work produced take the case of Southey. Southey
was, among the many mansions of literature of his day, the most
eligible mansion of all. He was a most erudite and superior literary
man. But though what he wrote was important and well paid for
when he wrote it, to-day the world has no use for it. But once in a
way Southey wrote a story for the fun of the thing and it will live for
ever. I refer of course to “The Three Bears.” Southey, strange to say,
wrote that wonderful story. He invented the immortal three, the
Great Huge Bear with his great rough gruff voice, and the Middle
Bear with his middle voice, and the Little Small Wee Bear with his
little small wee voice. And such a work of genius is it that already it
is stolen and altered and the name of the author is almost unknown.
And just because he wrote it for the fun of the thing it will go on
living as long as there are children in the world to tell it to. Porthos,
Athos, and Aramis, Dumas’ three musketeers, may vanish into
oblivion, but the three bears will be a folk-lore story when the affairs
of this century are a prehistoric myth.
Remember too, Southey’s companion, Wordsworth, the
“respectable poet” as De Quincey unkindly called him. Did he ever
write anything for the fun of the thing? Had he any fun in him to
write with? Wordsworth serves his purpose to-day, no doubt. He is
there for professors of English literature to profess. He is there for
serious-minded uncles to present as a birthday gift, in one volume
bound in whole morocco, floral back and sides, gilt roll, gilt edges,
price sixteen shillings and sixpence, to sedate nieces. But do the
sedate nieces read his poetry? As Sam Weller says: “I don’t think.”
Coleridge again, when you set aside the few poems that he did write
for the fun of the thing, presents the somewhat mournful spectacle
of a literary man spending a literary life doing literary work. You read
of him starting this periodical and that periodical, roaming about
England in search of subscribers under the impression that he had a
message to deliver; when, sad to say, all the while he was ringing
his bell and shouting “Pies to sell” the tray on his head was empty of
any useful food for mankind.
Compare these great names with that of their humble companion,
Charles Lamb. He never wrote an essay or a letter except for the fun
of the thing. He had to go down to an office day by day and do his
task. He might have kept pigeons or done a little gardening or
played billiards, but he preferred to read books and to go to plays
and write about things he loved. Not that his hobby was in its nature
a higher thing to him than another man’s, but it was his naturally,
and he simply wrote because he enjoyed writing, in the same way
that he drank because he enjoyed drinking. And what is the result?
Southey has departed into the shadows, when you take Wordsworth
off the young lady’s shelves you have to blow the dust off the top of
the volume, and Coleridge is only to be found in school poetry books
which are carefully compiled by economic editors of poems which
are non-copyright. But Charles Lamb has more friends and lovers to-
day than he had in his own lifetime. He wrote for the fun of the
thing and the fun remains with us to-day, bounteous and joyful,
bubbling over with humour and delight, and overflowing with
affection and respect for everything that is best in human nature.
And perhaps part of what I mean by writing for the fun of the
thing is to be found in a phrase that used to be uttered about
writings that they “touch your heart.” It is a curious old-fashioned
phrase. It would be interesting to enquire what it is that keeps a
book alive through after-generations. I think that this capacity of
“touching the heart” has much to do with it. Shakespeare, Dickens
and Goldsmith had this quality; so in a different way had Izaak
Walton and Samuel Pepys. It may be that this magic power is the
salt that keeps a man’s writings sweet among the varied
temperatures of thought through which they survive. Qualities of
brain and intellect vary century by century, but what we call the
heart of man is the same to-day as it was when King David wrote his
psalms. Therefore, unless our writings appeal to the heart it is
impossible for them to attain everlasting life. Much of the literature
of to-day is, I fear, as Touchstone says—“damned like an ill-roasted
egg all on one side.” For the fashion of the hour is to despise the
heart and to sneer at the simple folk whose hearts still beat in
harmony with the silly domestic notions of love and honour and
charity and family life. To-day who would be a writer must write for
the brains and intellects of the learned—meaning by the learned
those who have passed sufficient examinations to render it
unnecessary they should ever think for themselves again. And even
this is outdone by the new school who pride themselves that the
brain is as old-fashioned an audience for the author as the heart,
that the proper portion in the twentieth century is the liver. If a book
stirs the bile of all decent people it is to-day a popular success. So
unintelligent a view do some take of the movement that they try to
throw opprobrium upon it by the use of the epithet “yellow” as in
the phrase “Yellow Press”: whereas, yellow among the inner
brotherhood is the holy colour as typical of the movement as it is of
jaundice itself. Personally, I should like to send many of our great
novelists and playwrights of to-day to Harrogate for the season. I
believe that a course of ten ounce doses of the “strong sulphur,” at
that charming watering place would diminish the risk for them of a
far longer course of far stronger sulphur in the hereafter. Their
writings may have a vogue for a time and after all their position in
literature will not be decided by anything I say, or anything their
friendly and scholarly critics say, except in so far as we are atoms of
the general mob of mankind whose taste is final. For as Newman
said: “Scholars are the tribunal of Erudition, but of Taste the
educated but unlearned public is the only right judge.”
But before I deal with the last motive of authorship which I
suggest, let me say a few words about an entirely different answer
to the question I am putting “Why be an Author?” There are wise
men who declare that a man is an author from pre-destination;
because he cannot help himself, because he is built that way. In
other words that to be an author is a habit like drink or gambling. I
can see that if this theory gains ground, libraries are going to have a
rough time of it in the future. No doubt there are people—like myself
—who waste a great deal of time in reading and writing which might
be better used by digging in the garden, or cleaning the boots. As
education proceeds upon the lines of to-day this bad habit will grow
more popular. Young folk will take to spending their evenings, and
even their Sundays, in libraries and meeting together over books as
they do over football. Older folks will imbibe books much as they
imbibe beer. Respectable employers of labour will see the danger of
it—indeed, many of them to-day are clamouring against plays and
fiction and other literary products as evil in themselves. They will, I
think, rightly begin by persuasion. They will form Blue Ribbon
Societies and a United Kingdom Alliance for the total suppression of
the Book Trade. Then will come, in the natural order of things, a
Licensing Bench to license libraries. On this no magistrate will sit
who has ever written a book, or been connected with the publishing
trade, but magistrates who are total abstainers from reading and
writing will properly form a majority of the tribunal. And in the city of
Manchester, which is a city of Libraries, which library will they close
first? I should say the Ryland’s Library. For there is a seductive
beauty about its surroundings, and the books it gives you to drink
are of such wondrous flavour and served in such rare goblets, that
to the poor erring man, who like myself is not a teetotaler among
books, the temptation to leave his worldly duties and forget his tasks
among its luxurious pleasures, is one that wise magistrates will not
permit. Then, too, the landlord—I mean the librarian—is such a kind-
hearted fellow. Always ready to give you another—and nothing to
pay. Charles Lamb would never have got to the East India Office if
the Ryland’s Library had been in his path. For my part I always used
to approach my County Court in Quay Street from the other side,
saying to myself as I crossed Deansgate, “Lead us not into
temptation.”
Do not think that this idea of a future licensing authority for
literature is by any means a fanciful one. We have seen a Yorkshire
town council turning Fielding’s works out of a free library to their
own eternal disgrace, and a Library Committee in Manchester
boycotting Mr. Wells. Already Town Councils decide what sort of
plays we may go and see, and what sort of dances are good for us,
and absolutely settle for us what we are to drink in between the
acts, putting all the whisky on one side of the street and all the soda
on the other. When, therefore, the town council mind wakes up to
the fact that from a respectable employer of labour point of view the
author habit is as dangerous a habit as the drink habit, the licensing
system will most certainly extend. And I feel sure when things
progress and authors themselves are made to take out licenses I
shall run a serious risk—unless I mend my ways—of having my
license endorsed.
But for my own part, I do not believe in an author habit any more
than I greatly believe in a drink habit. Given sanity I believe a man
can keep off authorship if he tries. I never seriously tried, but I think
I could stop, if I wished to, even now. And there would be a danger
in any system of state or municipal control of authors that you might
hinder or prevent the author who has a message to deliver. Surely
there are enough amateur censors to bully and destroy the man with
a message without setting the Town Council at him. And the man
with a message after all is the only man who can plead justification
to the indictment “Why be an Author?”
Of course there are messages and messages; purely business and
temporary messages, and heaven-sent messages of eternal import
to mankind. Of temporary messages, sermons, and scientific
treatises should be published by telegraph, lest the message become
stale news before it reaches its destination. All books written by
craftsmen and schoolmen to impart knowledge are instances of
books written by people who have messages to deliver. Lamb calls
some of them biblia a biblia—books that are no books. In a sense he
is right, the more so because this class of book is generally written
by an author, wholly unable to explain the very limited message he
sets out to deliver. Reading a text-book is too often like listening to a
stutterer over the telephone. You know that he knows what he has
to say, but he can’t get it over the wires to your receiver. Some
literary gift is required even to write a school book. One must have
knowledge, power of arrangement, and the gift of imparting
knowledge to the ignorant. This last quality depends, I believe, in a
great measure on the capacity in the writer to conceive the depth of
ignorance in his probable readers.
He must have the rare faculty of putting himself in the students’
place. I do not myself remember a single good school book—but
that may be due to my youthful inattention, rather than any critical
insight in early life. On the other hand, I can name three books
which I regard as models of the kind of message-literature I am
speaking about; books that told me clearly and admirably everything
I wanted to know about the subjects they dealt with. These books
are, Dr. Abbott’s “How to write clearly,” Sir James Fitzjames
Stephen’s “Law of Evidence,” and Mr. H. Paton’s “Etching Drypoint
and Mezzotint.” The last book I regard as a model of what a practical
treatise on a craft should be. Although himself an etcher of
experience and great ability, he is able to follow the mind of the
ignorant and its possible questions, so accurately, that he provides
answers to the questions that arise from time to time in the mind of
the duffer bent on making an etching on a copper plate. I have
never seen the process done, but with the aid of this book I have
made many etchings—and what I have done other duffers can do. I
do not say these etchings of mine are masterpieces, but I do say
that the book so delivers its message that the most ignorant may
hear and understand. Mr. Justice Stephen’s book on Evidence is a
most wonderful piece of codification. The English Law of Evidence
has about as near relation to the real facts of life as the rules of the
game of Poker. It is one of those things that must be learned more
or less by heart, there is no sense or principle in it. Until Mr Justice
Stephen published his book the law was a chaos of undigested
decisions; since the publication it has been as orderly a science as a
game of chess. It has still no reality about it, but the moves and
gambits and openings are analysed and can be learned. As to Dr.
Abbott’s “How to write clearly,” let no one think evil of the work on
account of anything I have written, any more than Mr. Paton’s
volume should be judged by the artistic quality of my etchings.
As to the greater messages of life which we have had delivered to
us by the hands of the great authors, these are as I have suggested,
the real answer to the question, “Why be an Author?” The writings
of men like S. Paul and the author of the Book of Job and S.
Augustine, and in our own day, of Thomas Carlyle and Charles
Dickens, all seem to me to have been written in reply to some such
command as was given to S. Paul himself to whom it was said:
“Arise and go into the City and it shall be told thee what thou must
do.” The writer who has a message to deliver is generally told what
it is and he never, I think, fails to deliver it. He does not need
motives of vanity or greed—nor is there any question of writing for
the fun of the thing—he is told by some force beyond and outside
him what he must do, and he does. He is a happy messenger boy
sent on his errand by the Great Postmaster, whose messages he
delivers.
There are many names we all instinctively remember of writers
who seem to have had messages to deliver to ourselves, and whose
messages we have received with thankfulness, and I trust, humility.
It is wonderful sometimes to remember how these messengers have
been upheld in their service through dangers and difficulty, and
protected against the hatred, malice and uncharitableness of the
official ecclesiastical post-boys who claim a monopoly of all moral
letter carrying. Take as an instance the author of the Book of Job. It
has always been a marvel to me how he ran his message through
the cordon of the infidelity and ignorance by which the holy places of
his time were surrounded, and landed his book safely and soundly
into the centre of the literature of the world. I suppose the creed of
the author of the Book of Job was, as Froude puts it, “that the sun
shines alike on good and evil, and that the victims of a fallen tower
are not greater offenders than their neighbours.” That was a new
message then, and very few believe it in their hearts now. Most of
us have a secret notion that riches are the right reward of goodness,
and poverty the appropriate punishment of evil. It must have
required a stout heart to pen that message when the Book of Job
was written, and a fearless heart to face the publication of it among
the orthodox literature of the time.
I do not know if attention has ever been drawn to the point, but
the author of the Book of Job has always settled for me the literary
righteousness of the happy ending. Job, you know—as every hero of
every story-book ought to—lives happily ever afterwards. The Lord
gave him twice as much as he had before, his friends each gave him
a piece of money and a ring of gold, and he finished up with
fourteen thousand sheep and six thousand camels, and a thousand
yoke of oxen and a thousand she-asses, not to mention seven sons
and three daughters—“So Job died, being old and full of days.”
Now-a-days, when every story we read or play we see is
deliberately formed to leave us more unhappy than it found us, is it
not pleasant to those, who like myself do not believe in the dismal
Jemmy school of writers, to remember that the author of the Book
of Job “went solid” for the happy ending? I have no doubt the
dramatic critic of the Babylon Guardian “went solid” for him, and
called him a low down, despicable person—but the critics, if any,
have disappeared—the author, too, has disappeared—only his
message remains, and will always remain until it is no longer
necessary to us. And one reason that it remains is, because he was
a big enough author to know that if you write for mankind you must
not despise mankind, you must not sneer in your hearts at the very
people you are writing for, but you must write for them in a spirit of
love and affection, and respect, even to the respecting of their little
weaknesses, and you must remember that one of the weaknesses of
mankind—if it be a weakness—is the child-like love of a story which
begins with “Once upon a time,” and ends with everyone living
happily ever afterwards.
I have not answered the question, “Why be an author?” because
as I said in the beginning I do not know the answer. In so far as
there is an answer, it is given, I think, in the words of the prophet,
Thomas Carlyle. He is reassuring himself that the work of a writer is
after all as real and sensible and practical a work as that of any
smith or carpenter. “Hast thou not a Brain?” he says to himself,
“furnished with some glimmerings of light; and three fingers to hold
a pen withal? Never since Aaron’s Rod went out of practice, or even
before it, was there such a wonder-working Tool: greater than all
recorded miracles have been performed by Pens. For strangely in
this so solid-seeming World, which nevertheless is in continual
restless flux, it is appointed that Sound to appearance the most
fleeting, should be the most continuing of all things. The word is well
said to be omnipotent in this world; man, thereby divine, can create
as by a Fiat. Awake, arise! Speak forth what is in thee; what God
has given thee, what the Devil shall not take away. Higher task than
that of Priesthood was allotted to no man: wert thou but the
meanest in that sacred Hierarchy, is it not honour enough therein to
spend and be spent?”
That, if any, is the answer to the question, “Why be an Author?”
WHICH WAY IS THE TIDE?
“Will you take the oath of allegiance, George Fox?” asks the
Judge in the Court of Lancaster Castle.