The New York herald., 1922-04-09

Yet repeatedly one feels that the
author unfairly showed him onward
to disaster by accident, condolences,
sheer bits of bad luck quite in-ie-
pendent of his own thoughts or ac-
tions. For all its brilliant promise
the book leaves something akin TO
the disappointment of game de-
cided not by skill but by a success
sion of false moves.
At most what Mr.. Dos Passos had
to say about the world war was in
the nature of destructive criticism.
That is why 1.-THE Wasted Genera
tion," by Owen Johnson, stands out
in such splendid contrast. For he
had something worth while Ito say
constructively: and in this book he
said it with a soul satisfying force
and emphasis. Mr.. Johnson saw
with clear eyes the selfishness, the
Indifference, the half-hearted patrf-
otism against which America had
to fight at home while she fought
the enemy abroad; and he voiced
his criticisms through the medium
of his appealing French heroine,
who found excuse for us in our long
immunity from devastation and
death. 1t is only country, she
points out, such as France, where
not a family high or low but can
point to some father or uncle, some
long line of forbears, who have
given their lives in battle, that knows
to the full limit of sacrifice the
meaning of patriotism. Mr.. john
sons novel is perhaps open to criti-
cism in it's plot structure. He has
handled daringly cruel theme WITH
rare delicacy. If his sermon at
times elbows his plot out of the
way. his earnestness is his best ex-
cuse So far as this is an artistic
flaw it is in his case pardon lble
one.
X;
OF the remaining books that in re-
cent months have been hailed with
more or less rash enthusiasm the
criticisms already made in other
cases seem to apply with equal
force. There is, for instance, "Zell,"
by Henry G. Aikman, which. as ap-
pears from the wrapper of the latest
edition, has been held as superior TO
Moon Calf" Main Street" and
Miss Lulu Bett," while its hero has
been called "the most significant
character of the years fiction.
Parenthetically it is a deplorable
tendency of the day to measure new
books and writer's by their contem-
porary next of kin and not by the
more vigorous products of other
generations or races. 1t is a sorS of
literary breeding in-and-in. disas-
trous to the virility of criticism. To
be fair. the author of .Zelr' gives
enough initial promise to make him
worth watching. But the book itself
contains nothing really significant
which has not been said a number
of times already. Amory Zell, fight
ing his inward battle between an ar
tist and a good citizen, is comr on
enough both in literature and life.
1t is told in the same bald, harried
fashion that suits the impatience of
the present generation. and is as an
noying to leisurely readers as a
moving picture when the operator
finds himself behind schedule md
speeds up. What one remember of
''Zell" is not Amory's waverings be-
| tween his uninteresting wife, Ruby,
and her equally unseductive rival,
Inez Copeland No, it is the early
| part covering Amory's boyhood. his
coarse mouthed fathers anger at
| being caught in an amorous adven-
ture, and the vile message he sends
| to the boys mother: "Git out-a
here, you little brat. An tell that
| hell cat who sent you, If / ever calch
you papa-ing me again, she'll get
you back in a hearse,'
XII.
"The Blood of the Conquero, ="
| by Harvey Ferguson, is pleasant
contrast to the majority of m Ich
vaunted recent performances. Il is