Fiction
Americana
Mathews. 7s. 6d.) IT is a curious_ fact that this age, which is pre-eminently the age of canned goods and the quick-lunch counter, should also, in the realm of literature, be so noticeably addicted to the long novel and the literary saga. In a century -whose wireless, super-motors, and cinemas have deprived many people of leisure previously spent in reading, it is odd, to say the least, that such a number of books of the Forsyte ' type should be forthcoming ; and not only forthcoming but apparently widely popular. Singermann, by Myron Brinig, adds yet another to the long list of novels whose pages total something approaching five hundred. And after reading the first twenty or so of them, which describe in the most suggestive detail the events at a Jewish circumcision, the squeamish reader may not be inclined to read further. But in these days it is danger- ous to be too sensitive, and for those who persevere with Mr. Brinig there are delights in store which more than make up for any uneasiness occasioned by his opening pages. Singermann is the story of a Jewish family of that name who migrate from Rumania to the United States, and settle first in Minneapolis and later in the north-west mining town of
Silver Bow. It is the story of Moses Singermann and his wife Rebecca, and of the seven children, six sons and one daughter, which she bears him. In the true saga fashion it is the story of each one of them individually, and at the same time the story of the family as a whole. Throughout it bears the stamp of truth, .yet it is painted in colours more vivid than those which characterise the outwardly drab lives of ordinary men and women. Comedy and tragedy, romance and realism, horror and beauty : Mr.' Brinig seemingly has them all beneath his hand, and withal he has a style to match his imagination. A style, too, that is not the slave of its own conventions, but a live, lithe, almost inspirational style, ready
to take on new forms of thought and language, and to adapt itself to all emergencies. In particular it is a style capable of astonishing variations in rhythm and tempo ; variations con- ducted without incongruity or apparent effort. I do not know who Mr. Brinig is, beyond that he is American, or what, if anything, he has written before. But if Singermann is an earnest of what he can do, he should not be long making an enviable reputation.
Mr. Dreiser needs no introduction to English readers, most
of whom are familiar with An American Tragedy, if not with many other of his works. His new book, A Gallery of Women, is a collection of fifteen short Stories ; portraits of women of all kinds of temperament and in all stations of life. It is a book to read slowly and at intervals, rather than straight through at a sitting Like Singermann it is long, too long perhaps, and continued application to it breeds a certain suspicion of the author's completeness as a short story writer. One is inclined to think that the novel is really Mr. Dreiser's medium, and that as a story writer he 'lacks a sufficient selective sense to give his work in that form its best chance. He is liable, also, to work certain words to death, and I am impatient, on
occasions, of his chronological vagaries. However, these are small points and detract little from the sum of Mi. Dreiser's achievement, which is big. He writes always with a fresh
outlook on life and an easy tolerance which is pleasantly unobtrusive. Moreover, he is sufficiently self-critical to know in which direction his talents lie, and A Gallery of Women has a certain consistency of method, as well as subject, which relates it at once to the novel, and lends it an estimable
solidity of character.
It is a far cry frOm Mr. Dreiser to Mr. Thorne Smith, but the excursion is well or ;:h the making. Mr. Smith is another American, and was for some time, so the dust-cover informs us, on the staff of The New Yorker. That 'in itself, perhaps, should constitute a sufficient recommendation. But The New Yorker's humour is not everybody's humour, and no more is Mr. Thorne Smith's. It is a peculiar brand of humour :' racy, tart and sophisticated, but not likely to appeal, I think; to
the more broad-browed English public which enjoys its Punch and the activities. of the inevitable Jeeves. Personally, though, I enjoyed The Stray Lomb hugely. This fantastic story of a man who wakes up one morning to find that he has changed into a horse over night struck me as exquisitely droll, not so much in the nature of its subject, though that is odd enough, as in the novelty of its outlook and the brisk manner of its telling. Mr. Thorne Smith has a method of being funny which is surely original, if occasionally a little crude ; and though I am sceptical about this being " the funny book the world -has been waiting for," it is certain that some people will find it in,lnitely -amusing. - It is a pity that the last of these novels, which happens to be the only one by an Englishman, should also be incom- parably the worst. The World's Coarse Thumb is one of those astonishing books which continue to astonish by their -improbability, their lack of - invention, or their crass senti- mentality long after the reader has decided that the limit of astonishment has already been reached. It is just this, perhaps, which 'hakes it possible to read them. One has (unworthily) an excited feeling that only a very few pages ahead will be found some fresh source of humorous amaze- ment. Unfortunately, one is almost invariably right. This well-intentioned story of a War hero, who comes back full of democratic ideals for universal brotherhood, based on French comradeship, is a pathetic instance of a good and valuable
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