Fraeulein Else
31 anen K.
box 5/1
BRIEFER MENTION
Vaiycrony, by Ronald Firbank (1zmo, 240 pages; Brentano: 52). Mr
Firbank is the Ariel de nos Jours, and determined optimists will be reas¬
sured by the discovery that even this age has one. His Vainglory is the
most perfect flower of a fatigued society which having produced this
masterpiece can now pass on confdent of a 'niche,'’ to use one of the
author’s own words, in a history that knows how to value, say, a Lady
Castlemaine, a Madame du Barry, an Horace Walpole, or the new Countess
of Oxford.
FRAULEIN ELsx, by Arthur Schnitzler, translated by Robert A. Simon (12mo,
14§ pages; Simon & Schuster: Si.go). To be able to depict so convinc¬
ingly the slow development of madness, through repression, of a young
girl, while at the same time revealing only the conscious levels of her
mind is fresh proof of the extraordinary insight and craftsmanship of this
justly celebrated author. It is perhaps, however, a criticism of the re¬
strictive technique here employed that in the end we do not feel that
major response which the greatest art provokes.
Bakan ANn Cincuses, by W. E. Woodward (1zmo, 383 pages; Harpers:
H2). Like Carl Van Vechten, Mr Woodward appears to regard plot
as a mere net in which to enmesh queer fish. His novel is so loosely
put together, that it might be the product of a syndicate. Some chapters
are ser to the slow music of Sherwood Anderson; others have the-barnacles
of H. G. Welle ## ging to them; still others are awash with the salty
foam of F. Scatt Fitzgerald. One character argues at great length that
poctry and prose are becoming i distinguishable, while Mr Woodward
is bent on bringing about a similar merger of philosophy and fiction.
He has caught all sorts of ideas on his bit of “cosmic fly-paper,“ the
result being a sticky panorama of foibles—intermittently amusing, but
evanescent.
Kkakarrr, by Karel Capek, translated by Lawrence Hyde (12mo, 408 pages;
Macmillan: 5z.go) is a blur of mechanism and velocity—like riding in
the cab of a locomotive. Destructive force of some sort or other serves
as the dynamo of Capek’s humanitarian fantasies; in this instance, in¬
stead of robots, the idea is embodied in the discovery of an explosive
potentially capable of obliterating whole areas of the earth’s surface.
Somehow a deadly explosive has a tendency to be more deadly in print
than anywhere else, and Capek’s novel has not escaped. The author
throws a great amount of chemistry into the story, ignoring the fact that
the ignition point of the reader’s interest obeys other laws. Even when
he writes of romantic passion, he keeps his characters in test tubes and
fuses them over a Bunsen burner. Krakatit has many of the elements of
a thrilling tale—but most of them are chemical.
31 anen K.
box 5/1
BRIEFER MENTION
Vaiycrony, by Ronald Firbank (1zmo, 240 pages; Brentano: 52). Mr
Firbank is the Ariel de nos Jours, and determined optimists will be reas¬
sured by the discovery that even this age has one. His Vainglory is the
most perfect flower of a fatigued society which having produced this
masterpiece can now pass on confdent of a 'niche,'’ to use one of the
author’s own words, in a history that knows how to value, say, a Lady
Castlemaine, a Madame du Barry, an Horace Walpole, or the new Countess
of Oxford.
FRAULEIN ELsx, by Arthur Schnitzler, translated by Robert A. Simon (12mo,
14§ pages; Simon & Schuster: Si.go). To be able to depict so convinc¬
ingly the slow development of madness, through repression, of a young
girl, while at the same time revealing only the conscious levels of her
mind is fresh proof of the extraordinary insight and craftsmanship of this
justly celebrated author. It is perhaps, however, a criticism of the re¬
strictive technique here employed that in the end we do not feel that
major response which the greatest art provokes.
Bakan ANn Cincuses, by W. E. Woodward (1zmo, 383 pages; Harpers:
H2). Like Carl Van Vechten, Mr Woodward appears to regard plot
as a mere net in which to enmesh queer fish. His novel is so loosely
put together, that it might be the product of a syndicate. Some chapters
are ser to the slow music of Sherwood Anderson; others have the-barnacles
of H. G. Welle ## ging to them; still others are awash with the salty
foam of F. Scatt Fitzgerald. One character argues at great length that
poctry and prose are becoming i distinguishable, while Mr Woodward
is bent on bringing about a similar merger of philosophy and fiction.
He has caught all sorts of ideas on his bit of “cosmic fly-paper,“ the
result being a sticky panorama of foibles—intermittently amusing, but
evanescent.
Kkakarrr, by Karel Capek, translated by Lawrence Hyde (12mo, 408 pages;
Macmillan: 5z.go) is a blur of mechanism and velocity—like riding in
the cab of a locomotive. Destructive force of some sort or other serves
as the dynamo of Capek’s humanitarian fantasies; in this instance, in¬
stead of robots, the idea is embodied in the discovery of an explosive
potentially capable of obliterating whole areas of the earth’s surface.
Somehow a deadly explosive has a tendency to be more deadly in print
than anywhere else, and Capek’s novel has not escaped. The author
throws a great amount of chemistry into the story, ignoring the fact that
the ignition point of the reader’s interest obeys other laws. Even when
he writes of romantic passion, he keeps his characters in test tubes and
fuses them over a Bunsen burner. Krakatit has many of the elements of
a thrilling tale—but most of them are chemical.