And the result is if we read enough of the sort I describe above, we build the idea of an exciting, dangerous, continent, visited by half-real people more like the historical-fiction hero. These people have strange and interesting adventures which we could not possibly imagine happening to ourselves.
This type of book is directly responsible for the second sort. The author of this type is deadly afraid of being thought to brag of his adventures. He feels that the critical eyes of the old-timers is constantly on him. When he comes to describe the first time a rhino dashed in his direction, he remembers that old hunters, who have been so charged hundreds of times, may read the book. Suddenly, in that light, the adventure becomes pitifully unimportant. He sets down the fact that "we met a rhino that turned a bit nasty, but after a shot in the shoulder decided to leave us alone." Throughout the story he keeps in his mind's eye the imaginary audience of those who have done. He writes for them, to please them, to convince them that he is not "swelled head," nor "cocky," nor "is full of himself," nor thinks he has done, been, or seen anything wonderful.
