Evening star. [volume] (Washington, D.C.) 1854-1972, 1929-06-19

II flower show may be considered
As kind OF natural library in which
every blossom is book, so the living,
moving world Of people becomes to a
booklover a collection of volumes in
which each person is, too.
He sees novel In every man, woman
and child. II only ne could get II out of
them. It is a commonplace saying that
there Is at least one novel In every hui
man being. Perhaps this is so, in a
sense, but only in a sense.
Most lives are free from the COM
plexity which Is necessary for good
story plot. The orbits of the average
human being run too smooth a course
for suspense.
Such little uncertainty as develops in
such lives makes poor fiction material,
except In the one case in 100000, when
there happens to be novelist around
There is not the slightest chance in
the world for the normal person to get
out of himself the novel which is sup
posed to be In him. A great emotional
crisis might give him the urge, but UNI
less he were peculiarly fitted for the
task he would make failure OF it, In
all likelihood
Novelists are not normal persons in
any sense Of the word. On the other
hand, II must not be supposed, as 1t too
often Ia, that there is faint to abb
rather, in order to bring in those alb
normal In the combination of two gifts
the gift of seeing and the gift of put
ting what they see into words.
Thousands see, hence the prevalent
idea that there is novel in every one.
The world feels this, but 1t knows at
the same time that the other half OF
the equation Is Of equal Importance.
Jane Austen happened to be a mild
person who lived quiet life, but who
not only saw the novels that reposed
also the power to bring them into the
life of print.
Her material was slight, but she knew
how to make the most of it, What she
handles Is done deftly. whereas her
themes, such as they are, would make
an unreliable stretch of dizziness from
the pen of the average man or woman.
y X \
Yet every human being is book.
The unifnportant details of his daily
life, If they could be caught with facil-
ity would read better than the swiftest
moving tale Of events on end.
The real life of man is in his mind
and heart-that is why the great novels
depict spiritual rather than physical
adventures.
Every living person is living every day,
as strange as it sometimes seems, SO
absurdly has mankind come under the
clutches of the future, causing him to
whisper, Il will be happy tomorrow
will really begin to live next year,"
All there is, however, is today. and
he Is wise who knows it, One need not
discount either the past or the future
to put a proper valuation on the ever
living present. in which we move and
breathe and have our being.
1t is beautiful to dream. it Is we'll to
hope, but 1t Is essential to take the
here and now as it presents itself
Neither foolish disregard for the past
nor a blind indifference TO the future,
but a wholesome knowledge that the
days to come will not be much differ
ent, when he gets there, from this very
day Of days which after all these cen
turtles now has pierced the mystery Of
time to stand forth in splendor all
around.
y
Every man is a boSk, whether he gets
into print or not. He had beginning,