The New York herald., 1922-03-26
OF TODAY AND YESTERDAY OF WESTERN

cooled TO ashes. Nobody recalls the
titles or their works. No one cares a
rap what they wrote. Still, they
formed an integral part OF the gem
erai literary scheme and thus served
their purpose. And thinking OF this
we pc::ser little, our memories drift
ing back to F1aubert, who wrote
Madame Bovary' in the sos, and we
say to ourselves that this masterpiece
OF nAturalism, as we'll as tho tales
and novels OF his great worshipper and
disciple, Maupassant, will live when
all our modern realists are deader than
door nails.
Novel Needs Form
Whatever School 1t Belongs To
1t may be a truism to remark that
any book displaying originality is
bound to be regarded by the unimag-
inative masses as fantastic and vision
airy, but it is we'll to recollect that a
writer can be both fantastic and vis-
ionary to a marked extent without
being in the least original and a book
that does not exhibit this essential
quality Is very poor book indeed.
The novel, independently of the par
ticular school to which 1t processes to
belong, ought not to depart from ac-
cepted tradition in respect to form and
technique. The Greeks held correctly
to the idea that art and beauty were
of necessity inseparably united, but
our younger generation evidently
thinks otherwise. Our new writer's are
so bent upon describing what they are
pleased to call "a slice of life." al
though this may be wholly confined to
the sayings and doings of q handful
of provincial shopkeepers. that beauty,
both in idea and execution, is thrust
aside and ignored. Their novels are
no more works of art than are the
weird canvases of the cubists and the
post-impressionists, whom in some
ways they closely resemble.
1t is an undeniable fact that most OF
the realists Of to-day seem to be doing
their best to emulate in literature
what the cubists, the futurists and the
post-impressionists have accomplished
in drawing and painting. although the
reader, not being provided with the
equivalent Of the gallery catalogue,
must perforce arrive at his conclu-
sions In his own way. In short, not
to put too fine point upon it, what
passes for realism in fiction has. all
the earmarks of pose. 1t Is mod
ernism gone mad. 1t is not a truthful
exposition of life, nor does it give us
anything worth while. Select batch
OF the most widely read and discussed
novels Of recent publication-"Main
Street" Erik Dorn," Moon Calf"
"Cytherea," Brass" and those much
lauded English importations. Ursula
Trent" "Coquette" and Dangerous
Ages"--and what do we find? Not one
fine or noble character, not a single
sentiment rejecting the higher and
better emotions Of the human heart.
The best of the lot is perhaps doc"
kinnicott in Sinclair Lewis's "best
seller" who at times arouses in us
something akin to admiration. But as
whole they are sorry crowd. The
women, when they are not insuffer-
ably dull or neurotic, are pleasure low
ing dolls without sufficient moral
stamina to prevent their topping
headlong into the first pitfall that
yawns before them. On every page
Sex stalks triumphant The men be-
lieve in nothing. They are super
egoists, devoid Of ideals and aspira-
tions, hard, arrogant and vicious. All,
men and women alike. are soulless,
spiritually dead, disillusioned and
weary of existence before they have
begun to live. We search vainly for
the refreshing touch of humor SO
priced in the novelists of old. and we
fail to sense that redeeming breath OF
genius that renders the author law
unto himself.
Utterly Lacking in Style