This cursed belief， that if a thing is worth doing at all， it is worth doing well， is the cause of a great impoverishment in our private life， and also， to some extent， of the lowering of standards in our public life. For this tenet of proverbial faith has two effects on small talents： it leads modest persons not to exercise them at all， and immodest persons to attempt to do so too much and to force themselves upon the public. It leads to the decay of letter-writing and of the keeping of diaries， and， as surely， it leads to the publication of memoirs and diaries that should remain locked in the writers’desks.
It leads Mr. Blank not to write verses at all—which he might very well do， for the sake of his own happiness， and for the amusement of his friends—and it leads Miss Dash to pester the overworked editors of various journals with her unsuccessful imitations of Mr. de la Mare， Mr. Yeats， and Dr. Bridges.The result is that our national artistic life now suffers from two great needs： A wider amateur practice of the arts， and a higher， more exclusive， professional standard. Until these are achieved we shall not get the best out of our souls.
The truth is， I conceive， that there is for most of us only one thing—beyond， of course， our duties of citizenship and our personal duties as sons， or husbands， or fathers， daughters， or wives， or mothers—that is worth doing well—that is to say， with all our energy. That one thing may be writing， or it may be making steam-engines， or laying bricks. But after that there are hundreds of things that are worth doing badly， with only part of our energy， for the sake of the relaxation they bring us， and for the contacts which they give us with our minds. And the sooner England realizes this， as once she did， the happier， the more contented， the more gracious， will our land be.
There are even， I maintain， things that are in themselves better done badly than well. Consider fishing， where one’s whole pleasure is often spoiled by having to kill a fish. Now， if one could contrive always to try to catch a fish， and never to do so， one might—But that is another story.