BRIEFER MENTION
The Back Seat, by G. B. Stern (12mo, 240 pages; Knopf: $2) is a neat, satirical comedy of family life, or of that substitute for family life which a popular actress and her husband and daughters can achieve. On the surface it is a very successful compromise that Leonora and her stay-at-home husband have instituted, but the surface cracks and the daughters insist on growing up and annexing such properties of their mother as stage careers, a lover, and the popular favour. The back seat itself shifts its position, and is occupied by various members of the family in turn. Leonora is, however, the livest and strongest of the family, and despite a temporary eclipse emerges triumphantly in the foreground again, while Robert retreats to the back seat to count over the years before his Leonora shall retire from the stage and make him comfortable. The child Sally ought to be broadcasted for the benefit of all child psychologists. Her "Narcissus complex" is—to the reader—a new sort of farce, delightfully funny, and convincing as well.
Jane—Our Stranger, by Mary Borden (12mo, 353 pages; Knopf: $2.50) depicts the ineffectual dent made in the adamantine composite of pre-war Parisian aristocracy by a wealthy, strong, naively moral American woman. The first half of the book reaches descriptive tentacles about the plot and renders thoughtfully and suavely the overtones of French social culture. The latter half, narrated by Jane herself, releases the action with dramatic objectivity. The effect of the novel is that of a painting in flat colours done by a hand that knows how to give design to unusual flexibilities of style and to convey an impression of substance by outlines.
Bunk, by W. E. Woodward (12mo, 370 pages; Harper: $2) is a laudable try at keeping three bright-hued balls in the air at the same time. One is satire, another is fiction, and the third is philosophy. It's a good trick, if you can do it; Mr Woodward isn't quite agile enough. Just when he works up to the applause, he drops one of the balls, and the spectators—having seen H. G. Wells put over the same act years ago on the big time—walk out on him.
Tantalus, by Dorothy Easton (12mo, 297 pages; Knopf: $2.50) traces the revitalization of a middle-aged English vicar, habituated to an outworn creed, through his love affair with a young French governess. The subtleties necessary to lend distinction to a not unusual story are discriminatingly chosen and placed with admirable casualness where they are least looked for and yet most effective. The nature background, which gives the keynote to the emotional development, is painted in with reticent words that somehow are fresh and evocative. In spite of breathless sentences and meaningless exclamation marks a spontaneity is conveyed that is delightful in itself and particularly appropriate to a book written about the spirit of youth.
