BRIEFER MENTION
97
Gates of Life, by Edwin Björkman (12mo, 384 pages; Knopf: $2.50) reveals once more the fine perception, the artistic restraint, and the narrative skill which distinguished The Soul of a Child. This sequel carries the life story of Keith Wellander forward another decade, and becomes—as was almost inevitable—more emphatically a document of autobiographical fidelity, a circumstance which detracts in some measure from its charm, although it still remains a work of positive values. Mr Björkman sustains his theme without racing up bypaths in search of climax; he writes with a refreshing freedom from either sentimentality or swagger.
The Orissers, by L. H. Myers (12mo, §§5 pages; Scribner: $2) is over-burdened by ramifications of psychology and philosophy. The author has set himself a weighty task and defeated his accomplishment of it by too great thoroughness. He is insatiably explicit. Every detail of the story is heavily underscored, with the result that the interest of the whole is deadened. The book is one of slow maturation, gathering into itself the ideas and observations of many years. It has unusual scope, intermittent power, and sagacious penetration into human motives. But it does not quite conquer the reader; the remorselessness of its elaboration is too unremitting to permit his absorption.
The Middle of the Road, by Philip Gibbs (12mo, 428 pages; Doran: $2). Sir Philip Gibbs' new novel tells us nothing we do not know. The dissolution of European society as the aftermath of the war has been well established. We note some new phase of disintegration in the papers of each succeeding day. The strength of the book lies in the undoubted truth of the picture it paints. Its stark gloom is unrelieved by futile conventional optimisms. But its convincing description of the shipwreck of nations, faiths, and ideals will not appeal to those who wish to be amused. In that sense it is not a novel. As a record of ruin presented in fictional form, even with characters serving as pegs on which to hang opposing ideas and theories, it should hold the attention. In Janet's words: "Things happen like that. Perhaps they can't be helped. It's good if one gets a chance to patch things up. Life's mostly patchwork."
Plays: Third Series, by Jacinto Benavente, translated with an introduction by John Garrett Underhill (12mo, 219 pages; Scribner: $2.50) contains, to use the phrase of jh, nothing for adult education. Benavente has a fluent pen and a shallow intelligence; he can write a play in any genre without enriching it. Thus, in the present series, The Prince Who Learned Everything Out of Books is far inferior in freshness and invention to the dramatized versions of Wilde's fairy tales; In the Clouds is simply another realistic study of the middle class far less intense than those of Strindberg; while The Truth is a clever skit of the type Schnitzler perfected. The fourth play, Saturday Night, is an elaborate cheat. We puzzle through a slack labyrinth of noise, colour, epigram, and violence to arrive at the sub-structure—which turns out to be a stale allegory of Ambition, Youth, and Imagination. Indubitably, a very properly gilded brick for Drama Leaguers.
