Strumsky. [Henry Holt and Company, New York.] These eight connected
essays concern the modern apartment house filled with strange families
which become linked together by the telegraphy of domestics; the street,
Broadway, teeming with its interest in unnatural things; with the show
which one knows perfectly beforehand through the kindness of the
newspaper reporters; and others. The author sees the unimportant trifles
that make up urban life, and lifts them into whimsical prominence.
_The Wonderful Romance_, by Pierre de Coulevain. [Dodd, Mead and
Company, New York.] “To America, country of new thoughts”—thus does the
author dedicate her last book. Almost as if she could foresee her death,
Mlle. Fabre (Pierre de Coulevain was her pen name) wrote of conclusions
and impressions long stored up in her brain. Like her previous books,
this is a collection of thoughts and observations set down in a charming
but desultory way.
_To-Day’s Daughter_, by Josephine Daskam Bacon. [D. Appleton and
Company, New York.] _To-Day’s Daughter_ is an utterly American book
dealing with our peculiar present-day problems. Mrs. Bacon forces no
conclusions upon the reader, for each case is “different.” The author
limits her modern woman in no way except to make her choose one purpose
and to show her that she cannot be a dozen different women and achieve
success in all directions. She proves that woman must have a cohering
line, a central motive to which other things are subservient, and a due
regard to the environment where Fate has placed her.
_Lucas’ Annual_, edited by E. V. Lucas. [The Macmillan Company, New
York.] Of course, the correct literary pose toward even the best
“collections” is one of indulgent condescension. Nevertheless, we must
admit that in Lucas’s collection Ruskin’s criticism of one of Browning’s
poems gives us a good laugh and an intellectual challenge; that Barrie’s
_Hyphen_ and the prize novel, _Spoof_, are clever satires on literary
style; that Browning’s letter emphasizes what we felt while prying into
the Browning Letters: that our self-respect could never again be the
same;—that as a whole the book appeals to our sense of humor and to our
literary taste.
_Nothing Else Matters_, by William Samuel Johnson. [Mitchell Kennerley,
New York.] That jaded epithet, “like champagne,” should have been
reserved for this novel, for it bubbles and sparkles and leaves a
luxurious taste in one’s literary mouth; and, while under its
pleasurable influence, one is eager to declare that heroines of today
should all bear resemblance to the charming little human who laughs and
loves through these pages.
_The Bird-Store Man_, by Norman Duncan. [Fleming H. Revell Company, New
York.] The old, Sabbath-scented story, practically told by the title, is
in this case partially redeemed by a binding of tan, cream, and pale
green.
_Altogether Jane_, by Herself. [Mitchell Kennerley, New York.] When a
sane, intelligent woman speaks frankly and cleverly, with neither lush
nor morbidity, the public owes itself the pleasure of hearing her; and,
given that hearing, Jane, in this healthy chronicle, will be found
convincing.
_Personality Plus_, by Edna Ferber. [Frederick A. Stokes Company, New
York.] One or two personalities plus slang raised to the nth power minus
profundity gives the readable, salable unit which Edna Ferber presents
in this story of a blossoming college chap.
_The True Ulysses S. Grant_, by Gen. Charles King. [J. B. Lippincott
Company, Philadelphia.] Some patriotic hawker should get the idea and
the permission to sell this informative volume at that sight-seen tomb
on Riverside Drive, for Grant can’t have too many friends.
_Nancy the Joyous_, by Edith Stowe. [Reilly and Britton, Chicago.]
Nancy, one animated beam of bookish sunlight, is just too sweet and
frank and “wholesome” for anything—even to read.
_The Torch Bearer_, by Reina Melcher Marquis. [D. Appleton and Company,
New York.] Once again the reader is asked to consider a married woman
with a talent—a situation which has become epidemic. In this case the
plot is too big for the writer’s ability and the whole story is shallow
and sketchy.
_Selina_, by George Madden Martin. [D. Appleton and Company.] Like so
many writers who achieve a first success, Mrs. Martin has not done
nearly so well with Selina as she did with Emmy Lou. Selina is natural
but colorless. The Mid-Victorian setting (which is repeatedly
emphasized) is of Mid-Victorian mediocrity. The plot is merely a series
of unstartling incidents.
_Essays.—Political and Historical_, by Charlemagne Tower. [J. B.
Lippincott Company, Philadelphia.] Those who have been taught to believe
government is the most important thing in our existence and is an
institution founded on truth, justice and human needs will if they read
this book at all sincerely, close it in wonder. Despite the “skill and
thoroughness” with which the book is written one cannot help questioning
the meaning of all this petty, diplomatic scheming and complicated
governmental legislating.
_Coasting Bohemia_, by J. Comyns Carr. [The Macmillan Company, New
York.] Essays, some of which appeared in an English daily, the real
value and literary worth of which compel us, who live in America, to
realize our lack of journalistic criticism. Millais, Alma-Tadema,
Burne-Jones, Whistler, and many others are written about in a manner
that surely must have aided in public understanding and appreciation.
_Anne Feversham_, by J. C. Snaith. [D. Appleton and Company, New York.]
“Delightful,” “charming,” “entertaining,” and all the rest of the usual
publishers’ adjectives for usual books. They try to justify this one
because of its historical background, which, however, is too slight to
save it.
_The Commodore_, by Maud Howard Peterson. [Lothrop, Lee and Shepard
Company, Boston.] A lean-on-me-Grandpapa little boy, plenty of
sentiment, a style which some people consider adorable, incidents of
wholesome morality pinned to a background of naval stations and marine
affairs, make this a book which the young may read with impunity—and, if
young enough, with satisfaction and a grim resolve to go and do
likewise.
_The Grand Assize_, by Hugh Carton. [Doubleday, Page and Company, New
York.] Milton built a heaven for his highest imaginings; Dante dug a
hell and cast all his personal enemies into it; the author of _The Grand
Assize_ puts the Last Judgment into a municipal court room and tries the
Plutocrat, the Derelict, the Daughter of Joy, the Drunkard, and all his
other pet aversions. This he does with an intellect less alive to the
essence of human nature than that of the most biased, graft-elected
judge of the last decade, for he treats life as a theory and people as
classified emotions.
_Wintering Hay_, by John Trevena. [Mitchell Kennerley, New York.] This
tragedy of weakness will hold everyone who has ever tried to pour
success into some sieve-like character, too negative to stand alone. So
well is Cyril Rossingall depicted that the reader loses the consummate
art of the author in his seeming artlessness. Its setting is life in
London and Dartmoor; its plot is life as lived by English gentlefolk;
its theme is the reflex effect of events on life; its essence is
simply—life.
_The Story of Beowulf_, translated from the Anglo-Saxon by Ernest J. B.
Kirtland. [Thomas Y. Crowell Company, New York.] Once again the ancient
Anglo-Saxon manuscript, treasured through centuries in the British
Museum, has been made over into up-to-date English with all the
trimmings of introduction, foot-notes, appendix and frontispiece. As a
mere layman, we believe it to be well done.
_Stories without Tears_, by Barry Pain. [Frederick A. Stokes Company,
New York.] Trivial of plot, sometimes hardly more than an incident,
these stories capture some poise, pose, or feature of life and cast it
masterfully into a medallion of delightful symmetry. Sad, gay, amusing,
pathetic, they have the de Maupassant twist with all its perennial
fascination.
_Marta of the Lowlands_, by Angel Guimera. [Doubleday, Page and Company,
New York.] What Lady Gregory has done for the Irish, Angel Guimera has
done for the Catalan drama (Catalonia is a province in Spain) by
picturing the characteristics of the people in various dramatic
situations. In _Marta of the Lowlands_ he has shown the tragic and
absolute ownership of the landed proprietor over the peasants who live
on his territory.
_A Soldier of The Legion_, by C. N. and A. M. Williamson. [Doubleday,
Page and Company, New York.] The Williamsons know Northern Africa and if
you know them—you surely do, this being their fifteenth book—you will
know what to expect here. Those people who still can find time for
nothing but war “literature” may be interested to know that the Legion
described in this book is fighting in France for the Allies in the
present war.
_Private Affairs_, by Charles McEvoy. [Houghton Mifflin Company,
Boston.] It is human to be curious, and when we get a chance we like to
know all about the intimate affairs of other people. In this book the
affairs are told in such a direct, interesting manner, without the
pettiness of gossip, that we find sufficient excuse for our human
weakness.
The Reader Critic
_George Middleton, New York_:
I read _Wedded_ with much interest and really want to congratulate you
upon your courage in producing it. As I told the author, whom I recently
met, I do not think technically it is perfect: he has overdrawn the
minister and made an author’s comment in his lines. I feel the last line
absolutely out of key; for the effect, in my judgment, would have been
much stronger if the minister had been less obviously the hypocrite.
Aside from a little bungling in the opening, I think, however, that its
sincerity is much more important than this captious criticism. I feel he
put over quite clearly a situation in human life which should be
presented. And it was courageous of you to affront public opinion, as
you no doubt have, and give place to such a sincere little piece of
life. I wonder when the world is going to let us talk about all the
things we now smirk over and know. Once we can place these sex matters
on the same plane of conversation as we do pork and cheese then they
will really cease to be important. I believe in the reticences of taste
and proportion—but not those of subject matter. And sooner or later the
question of birth control must be given wide publicity, so that only
wanted children will come into the world. So long as functionally the
woman must bear the labour and thus suffer unequally in parenthood, so
should we do everything through education to arm her against assuming
unwilling burdens. When children are born of free choice in marriage
then they will partake of a higher dignity, and parenthood itself will
mean more than a functional disturbance and a matter of rebellion it now
is with many. Any play which makes us question our nice polite functions
about morality should be accessible to those not afraid of new ideas. It
is curious how little faith the innate conservative has in human nature
and the finer things of life. So afraid are they that they would bind
people by old traditions and not personally-achieved opinions. _Wedded_
presents in vivid phrase a fragment of life which has no doubt come to
many a woman, and I heartily congratulate you for the courage which
prompted you to give the author a hearing.
_S. H. G., New York_:
The November number is the best yet. I don’t like Iris’s work as well as
I do Bodenheim’s; judging by these poems I think he has been too much
praised. Bodenheim makes some superb contributions to language and
imagery. Langner’s play doesn’t escape the querulous note in spots, but
it is worth doing and is done well on the whole. Darrow’s article is
well-knit and presents an idea. The best thing in the issue is Kaun’s
translation. And I dislike very much your article on Emma Goldman,
because it falls so far below the hardness of thought it should have
had.
I have taken much to heart two articles in the first _New Republic_:
Rebecca West’s _The Duty of Harsh Criticism_ and the editors’ _Force and
Ideas_. We who are saying things in public have a simply tremendous
responsibility not only to feel, but to know, and to use the acid test
on everything we say. Your article shows that you have been carried away
by a personality to approval of a social program, and is the most
convincing proof I have ever seen that belief in anarchism is a product
of the artistic temperament rather than the result of an intelligent
attempt to criticise and remould society. I know you did not intend it
to be so; that is the reason it annoys me so much. It was a wise and
necessary thing to correct misapprehensions about Emma Goldman’s
personality; that you have done fairly well; though even that is marred
by too much protesting and a substitution of a somewhat sentimental
elation for power of mind and emotion. But your offhand generalities on
the top of the third page are just the sort of shoddy thinking that
justifies conservatives in dismissing social theorists with a sneer, and
imprisoning them when they get dangerous. These generalities do not even
accurately represent Wilde’s essay. It is not that I disagree with you;
I recognize a fundamental truth in these things if it could only be
disentangled, made definite, and applied. But to a discerning and
unprejudiced reader it is quite evident that in order to save yourself
the trouble and unromantic grind of doing this, you have made a lot of
meaningless assumptions without really knowing very much about history
or anthropology or psychology or any of the other wonderful tools which
modern heroes have put at the service of the human will. You have the
blind faith of a Catholic saint in divine revelation; the only
difference is that the terms of the revelation are altered.
As a thing entirely apart from the above objection, the sporadic
violence of the anarchists is puerile and ridiculous. The whole muddle
in which the anarchists find themselves on account of their
disagreements as to violence is an example of the necessity of efficient
and intelligent organization—which is exactly what government in its
essence is, to me (but is not now). My own position on anarchism has
become more clearly defined than before. I stand fundamentally with
Montessori on the position that the beginning and the end of revolution
is improvement of the individual. I should be prepared to endorse a
brutal autocracy if that bred better human stock. I am thoroughly
convinced that Emma Goldman could preach until she lost her voice
without producing an appreciable effect. The world has had too much
preaching. There would be something finally tragic about the waste of
such a personality as hers unless there were a better way of
accomplishing her object. She has been working for years, yet
ninety-nine per cent of Americans regard her as a sort of Carrie Nation.
The more we long for her success the more we appreciate her personality,
the more keenly we must criticise her method.
The question of how race hygiene must be applied is a profound and
complex matter, impossible of solution by any individual. It will be
solved gradually, and as a resultant of honest intellectual work by all
forward looking people—more especially by your despised scientists. It
will be a matter of inspired scientific education, of proper industrial
conditions, of profound art stimulus, of sex reform, in short, of most
of the things advocated today by the socialist party. I have a
fair-to-middling imagination, but I totally fail to see how these things
may properly be put into action without intelligent governmental
organization. We simply must not narrow our minds by perfectionist
generalities. It is the duty—and the inspiration—of the poet to
understand and use science, of the scientist to develop the poet in
himself, of all to face grimly every fact which concerns him and banish
forever from his mind sentimentalism. Sentimentalism about ribbons and
candy is sometimes pretty, but sentimentalism about the human race is a
terrible form of blasphemy and the greatest of the sins of pettiness.
Now that I have spoken honestly, don’t think I have joined the ranks of
irascible conservatives, and that I yell because I’ve been prodded. No
one realizes more than I the necessity of greater emotion, or more
sweeping vision. But let’s not make our vision sweeping by the simple
process of cutting off our view!
OBLOMOFFDOM
_Minnie Lyon, Chicago_:
We are told by literary authorities that a certain Goncharoff occupies
the place next to Turgeniev and Tolstoy in Russian literature. As to
this I cannot vouch, but I can say that he has written a most profound
and wonderful book called _Oblomoff_ wherein he has depicted in
convincing terms the enthralling bondage of Russia’s intellectuals in
her days of stagnant inactivity. From this book was coined the
phrase—“Russian Malady of Oblomoffdom”, so well did it dissect her
diseased and irresolute will—a malady so universal as to make one feel
that _Oblomoff_ was written for us as well as for Russia. It certainly
is a direct emphasis upon a condition which prevails so largely both in
our personal and social life that few can read this inimitable pen
portrait without a sneaking feeling that some of his own lineaments are
limned therein.
Goncharoff writes of his hero: “The joy of higher inspiration was
accessible to him—the miseries of mankind were not strange to him....
Sometimes he cried bitterly in the depths of his heart about human
sorrows. He felt unnamed, unknown sufferings and sadness, and a desire
of going somewhere far away,—probably into that world towards which
Stoltz had tried to take him in his younger days. Sweet tears would then
flow upon his cheek. It would also happen that he would feel hatred
towards human vices, towards deceit, towards the evil which is spread
all over the world; and he would then feel the desire to show mankind
its diseases. Thoughts would then burn within him, rolling in his head
like waves in the sea; they would grow into decisions which would make
all his blood boil; his muscles would be ready to move, his sinews would
be strained, intentions would be on the point of transforming themselves
into decisions.... Moved by a moral force he would rapidly change over
and over again his position in his bed; with a fixed stare he would lift
himself from it, move his hand, look about with inspired eyes ... the
inspiration would seem ready to realize itself, to transform itself into
an act of heroism—and then, what miracle, what admirable results might
one not expect from so great an effort! But—the morning would pass away,
the shades of evening would take the place of broad daylight—and with
them the strained forces of Oblomoff would incline towards rest—the
storm in his soul would subside—his head would shake off the worrying
thoughts—his blood would circulate more slowly in his veins—and Oblomoff
would slowly turn over and recline on his back; look sadly through his
window upon the sky, following sadly with his eyes the sun which was
setting gloriously.... And how many times had he thus followed with his
eyes that sunset!”
How easy to fall back upon a soft bed of _concessions_—and drift into a
world of forgetfulness! It is just into terrible inertia—this every day
and _every_ day humdrum conservatistic acceptance of things as they
are—that THE LITTLE REVIEW comes with its laughter of the gods; it is so
joyous, so fearless, so sure of its purpose, and hurls itself against it
with its vital young blood and its burning young heart, and pleads with
it for a re-creation of ideals in living, life, and art, and a bigger
comprehension of what life and art can mean to the individual and to the
race, if the individual will only open his heart and mind to these
limitless freedoms. And it does not say: “Look, this is the only way;”
but “come all ye who have something to offer—only let it be sincere,
true, and unafraid.” And because of this big inclusiveness, we sometimes
hear our friend, the sophisticated critic, say: “It lacks
sophistication.”—What is sophistication anyway? Isn’t it something that
has been baked and dried a long time? I wonder if every thoughtful
reader does not grow weary of petty criticism! It is the twin sister (it
has not the virility to be a boy twin) of Oblomoffdom, and lives as a
parasite upon the brains of others. (I like that word _Oblomoffdom_; it
covers such a multitude of indictments with an economy of words.) Let us
have criticism—yes, by all means; but let it _be_ criticism—critical in
values, illuminating in meaning, clear in exposition, telling us how and
_why_. Then we’ll give you our respectful and unbiased attention. Too
much of the stuff that passes as criticism is merely a “personal
attitude,” a channel for expressing a prejudice for (often) something
too big for the critic’s grasp. How often, too, does one grow a bit
heart-weary on hearing some big personality, some fine intellect limit
itself to one vision—its own.
Why not throw that attitude aside as an outworn garment, and welcome any
force, simply and gladly, that can stimulate a spark of life-urge within
us? A more courageous and intense love of truth, of men, of life.
And so, we welcome you, LITTLE REVIEW, with a _Happy New Year_ and a
_long life_—as a Rebel spirit amongst us, fighting our deadly
Oblomoffdom.
Statement of Ownership, Management,
Circulation, Etc., required by the Act
of August 24, 1912
of _THE LITTLE REVIEW_ published monthly at
_Chicago, Ill._, for _October 1st, 1914_.
Editor, _Margaret C. Anderson, 917 Fine Arts
Building, Chicago_.
Managing Editor, _Same_.
Business Manager, _Same_.
Publisher, _Same_.
Owners: (If a corporation, give its name and
the names and addresses of stockholders holding
1 per cent or more of total amount of stock. If
not a corporation, give names and addresses of
individual owners.)
_Margaret C. Anderson_
_917 Fine Arts Building, Chicago._
Known bondholders, mortgagees, and other
security holders, holding 1 per cent or more of
total amount of bonds, mortgages, or other
securities: _None_.
_MARGARET C. ANDERSON._
Sworn to and subscribed before me this _17th_
day of _Sept., 1914_.
_MICHAEL J. O’MALLEY_,
_Notary Public_.
(My commission expires _March 8, 1916._)
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Illustrated with four full-page colored illustrations and a
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“Pantaloon,” “The Twelve Pound Look,” “Rosalind” and “The
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