NEWISH WRITING New Writing. Edited by John Lehmann. (Hogarth Press.
6s.) THERE are no surprises in the spring issue of New Writing, and that, according to the reader's temperament, is its greatest
merit or its greatest fault. It means, on the one hand, that Mr. Lehmann has maintained his standard, done what he set out to do, and given his public what it wants. On the other hand, it also means that in the three and a half years of its existence there has been little excitement and (apart from the introduction of critical work) no change. The maintenance of the standard is an honourable feat performed in the teeth of a world of philistines, which is yet more tolerant of Left ideas than Marxists with a predisposition to martyrdom care to believe (for the reason why people d3 not buy Left-wing litera- ture is not because it is Left-wing, but because it is literature —or almost). The lack of change and excitement, however, seems slightly anomalous in a periodical with such a title.
And, in fact, we find throughout these seven volumes an, if not increasing, at least increasingly evident, disregard for writing, and • a concentration on subject matter worthy of Frith or Dali or the editor of a woman's magazine. The sub- ject, it seems, is the thing, and it is better to have bad 'writing on the set subjects than good writing on any others. Lives and deaths of the People makes as good a subject as any for a gifted writer, but a rather more dreary one than most for those who lack inspiration. Not everything here is inspired.
That is my only protest, however, and the extent of its sweep depends on how you look at things. Two years ago one would have left it unsaid, or at least kept it modestly until the end. New Writing is a serious effort, bravely and single-mindedly carried out, in a world more noted for frivo- lity on serious occasions and solemnity on frivolous ones than for any sustaining seriousness of purpose. But now that the plant is firmly established it can stand a touch of frost ; it is more than probable that it will not notice it.
For the rest, readers familiar with past volumes will not be waiting for my recommendation ; and any who have missed those earlier volumes certainly ought to try this seventh one. No single volume has failed to justify its existence, and here there are several items of quite outstanding merit, notably Mr. Worsley's Malaga Has Fallen. This is on one of the set subjects, but it is also a fine piece of writing regardless. It is the kind of thing that is only published in New Writing—a tearingly realistic description of the flight from Malaga—and it is the work of a born writer who, but for Mr. Lehmann, and as far as this piece is concerned, might as well never have been born at all.
After this it is a little dispiriting to find the best writing, as such, among the translations. The veteran Giono has half a dozen pages in the Spring Festival section. Another Frenchman, Jean-Paul Sartre, has the only story in the volume which is a self-sufficient work of art of any magnitude. Mr. Phelan's little sketch, it is true, is also like rain in a desert, but it soon leaves off. From Germany, or the Invisible Reich, in Brecht's little playlet showing a Nazi domestic interior, comes the most balanced criticism of life. It seems odd that we should have to go to the German for humour and a sense of the ridiculous.
But deserts also have their attraction and, besides these - contributions, and often more specifically in the New Writing manner, there are many pieces of interest, ranging from further fragments about the Smallish Civil War to stories about the British Proletariat—if it has no objection to that label. There are translations from Far Eastern writers and informa- tive essays on the theatre and the cinema. And so on. As to poetry, Mr. Auden continues to display his astonishing gifts, once with a taste that is not the eaual of his virtuosity, and Mr. Mallalieu has a poem without a title which seems to me the most distinguished piece of work between these covers.
EDWARD CRANKSHAW.
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