Evening star. [volume] (Washington, D.C.) 1854-1972, 1931-04-19

n HEET Arthur Phelps friends. He is,
III Just now, on his way back over
"A the long road whose first forward
passage so overtaxed him for food
and covering and shelter against
had weathers that as matter of fact, he dropped
the bulk of his real luggage, bit by DIT
along the way, not minding, not caring. II ne
thought about it at all he knew 1t would be
quite safe, that he could at any time return and
pick it up. People unmindful OF such drop
pings from boys soul, Of such Sheddings OF
boys mind.
So here is Arthur Phelps come back to pick
himself up along the way OF his boyhood ana
getting UP toward being older. A bookShop LAD,
pack-boy carrying books to their oestlnauon'
lodging down by-ways to rest a minute while
he grabs things out Of those books Words
iurnbles, odd figures that don't mean much. But
he has to have them. That Is the boy, Arthur
Phelps. A consuming passion for the inside
of those books. No matter what this Is about
IT'S about something and I'll worry the life
out Of it. But I'll know!
'Rithmetic Everybody has TO know that.
'rWhat two numbers those whose sum Is
% and whose difference is 2S?" Oh Lordl
Nobody knows but the man who made the book"
There's history. You must have history ana
poetry-"That Racine chap and this Cornetlle
fellow-you'S never heard Of them in your life
and who the dickens they are you don't really
know now" And so it goes almost from mile
to mile through this journey Of q London boy
hood. Exclamation and ejaculation-both TO
the effect that I've Just got to know" Let 1t
come heller skelter, this knowledge. It's mine
and must have it. Such is the effect OF this
record one of the most piercing and terrible
pictures Of q human lost as q little boy in the
overwhelming present Of the world. Lost In
familiar street In London, lost in its hidden
knowledge in its enormous withholdings from
this demanding lad
Here is something so radically different from
the book we know that it simply steps aside
from getting into any class. No plot No action,
not in the proper sense Of action. No sequence,
except that Of being alive day after day.
Neither balance nor proportion. No pedigree
whatever Wholly without literary lineage.
But-what book Wrong! What an extraor-
binary transfer Of flesh and blood-not much Of
either-to print.
Long! Long! 100000 words. Near TOO
pages Squarely against our current preachment
against the heavy volumes for these hurried
days. Here however Is the eXception-the stu
pendouS and blessed exception. word Of
advice. Don't mind what any one says about
Hunger and Love-" Not what Bernard Shaw
says nor Bertrand Russell Go to it, clean.
Strip off bit Of it, like the countryman strip
ping his plug. Get it into your mouth and
then go on to your job. Chew on that strip
ali day. F1etcherize it to a fluid. Swallow it
down into your innermost
The next day do it all over again. In the
course Of this 300000-word journey you'll know
more than you do now, more about boys and
the wilderness, boys and the jungle, about young
men coming into larger complexities which they
still believe to be some supreme unity-f only
they could get hold Of it-proper like.
I'm still biting this book off. day by day. and
passing it around to needy folks like me for
each mouthful to snatch as he can. There