otherwise would be impossible to them. Because this extra-awareness raises the conscious level of the book, because it contributes to Frank's general intention, it is justified. It nevertheless forces one to accept the characters as essentially Frankian in origin. There is no valid artistic reason why an author should not project portions of himself into his characters. In fact there is a very definite artistic reason why he should. For this is the method of great creation. But he should be fully determined in this position. And no trace of an incongruent mode should be allowed to infringe it. The figures, of whatever origin, should stand consonant and fused. In Holiday, here and there are to be found breaks in texture, of the dialogue, of the dialogue compared to the unspoken consciousness, that make one question Frank's clarity, during the process of composition, on this point. For example, take these lines attributed to John Cloud:
"Ol' woman—yo' getting lazy, yo' gettin' fat! Yo' cookin's too good. Mammy, soon I'll have to h'ist you." . . .
—Your love's a white sun shinin' on a sea.
Summer blue sea
Summer blue sky
Da's your love!
It is your skin!"
"—I love you, mother. But it is your fault. You made me."
"—An' I care fo' you. An' in my love fo' you, why is there blame?"
I do not of course refer to any superficial difference in the language used, in the use of dialect. I refer to a psychological break, a too obvious duality of origin which suspends one between the desire to accept Cloud as a southern Negro, and the desire to accept him as a character created by Frank for the specific purposes of his design. This break is the one serious interior defect that I find in Holiday. It does not, however, impair the structural finish of this novel. Technically, it is solid and tight. And as an art form it is clean, superb. Holiday therefore sustains Waldo Frank's high achievement as a literary artist.
