BRIEFER MENTION
Sinbad, by C. Kay Scott (12mo, 282 pages; Seltzer: $2) brings to the portrayal of a type of woman rarely found in fiction the accuracy of a dictaphone record; the unsparing, truthful revelation of a voluntary confessional; the justness of widely-inclusive observation; the emotional, dramatic quality of human interest. But the book is more: it is a dynamic and artistically harmonious interpretation of a section of life. Subsidiary talents are not exploited, but, instead, are united to point the narrative. Cleverness does not interfere with wisdom; an environment lending itself easily to mere bizarreness is incisively, but passingly, criticized; passional crises fall into place in character development. The style is exactly suited to the mood of the book; it is pliant and tense, never loose or artificial.
Downstream, by Sigfrid Siwertz, translated from the Swedish by E. Classen (12mo, 405 pages; Knopf: $2.50) fails in its primary duty: it does not interest. Its dulness is surprising and perverse, for the material staked out—the rise of a family to mammonish power by the sale of its soul—would seem to be a rich mine. Perhaps the reason for the failure to produce anything of value, or even of entertainment, is that totally unregenerate people like the Selambs are quite as stupid as Pollyannas. We are given their measure in the first chapters; the others are an exposition of material accretions, without corresponding internal development or decay. The downfall of the Selambs and of the book consists in their never fighting against their doom.
Soliloquy, by Stephen McKenna (12mo, 318 pages; Doran: $2) ploughs a straighter furrow into the feminine psychology of its subject than did Mr McKenna's previous novel, The Confessions of a Well-Meaning Woman. Where that book was unfolded episodically, this one has a rounded and cumulative development; it is a more definite portrait, richer and shrewder. It lacks somewhat in perspective, however, due to the author's election of the soliloquy form. Life seen through a capital I is apt to be like a ball game surveyed through a fence; the gap is seldom as wide as the field.
Cables of Cobwebs, by Paul Jordan-Smith (12mo, 369 pages; Lieber & Lewis: $2) is the story of a young man who follows his rebellious concepts of freedom and equality through years of disagreeable experiences only to find them unworthy of his idealistic concentration. It is worked out with strict regard to the logical development of the hero and achieves ironic and artistic unity. The delineation of the girl, who, however, plays a minor rôle, is hesitant; the dialogue is somewhat stilted, and the sentence structure here and there twisted and awkward. But the book—which substitutes theoretic discussions for love scenes—commands unfailing interest: it is an exceptionally solid piece of work, calm, proportionate, dissenting, and skilful.
