Reviews of Books
I
ARLIE GELSTON
Something different than the ob
jective technical method of Dreiser,
the totally subjective style of Sher
wood Anderson, or the hard satire of
Ben Hecht is the strikingly natural
istic style of one Roger Sergei,
whose “Arlie Gelston” is one of the
newest contributions to first books
by young authors.
“Arlie Gelston” has a technical
finish and competence rare in con
temporary novels. It is the history
of the love-life of a girl whose life
is spent in that vast obscurity in
which plain people usually exist.
Hers is not a large inarticulate
dumbness—nor huge spiritual out
lines. She does not depict the flap
per type or the emancipated modern.
She is merely one of a large aver
age who make up both small-town
;.nd city. She symbolizes the type in
whom the senses vitalize the soul. A
wonderful bit of artistry is the thin
etching lines that compose the char
acter drawing in this novel.
Dialogue is one of his ablest tools
in the sculpturing of the product
that is “Arlie.” The family fight
that arises over a discussion of what
Arlie shall buy with her first money
is very well done. And the book
is a chain of such commonplace epi
sodes.
Sergei does no-t resort to pity to
make us feel Arlie—but the entire
book is pervaded with the pathos
of everyday exhaustion. The male
characters that make up the book
are as average and as well drawn
as the central figures. They are
not ingrown, introspective heroes of
Sherwood Anderson, nor the ridicu
lously unthinking Main Street
types. They aro the Great Average.
There is no sex-consciousness in
Sergei’s artistry. And he docs not
indulgo in scathing irony. The book
appeals. It is a first one. We shall
await results—but this one has the
right to live.—K. W..
* # #
HORSES AND MEN
In Sherwood Anderson’s new
book, “Horses and Mon,” “tales,
long and short, from our American
life,” there is manifest a now Shor
wood; a Sherwood surprisingly free
from young girls coming home with
suit cases and psychoses and middle
aged men, corked by inhibitions.
Just what it is that has brought
about thiB change so manifest in the
stories that make up the book, it
would be hard to say. Some critics
have had the theory that Anderson
began to write as a means of relief
for the soul-sickness that a crowded
lifo in a city brought him. If one
cared to accept this theory, then one
might believe that his “Triumph of
the Egg,” “Wjnesburg, Ohio,” and
I_ I
“Many Marriages” acted as a
catharsis. He no longer seems to
be allowing his untutored, creative
urge free rein. His characters are
something more than names, mere
disembodied emotions. Sex is no
longer the entire nucleus for all the
emotions, actions and reactions of
the people whom he puts on display.
The sense of the grossly physical is
not so dominant in these later
stories. He is beginning to concern
himself a little more with what peo
ple say and do in a given situation,
rather than attempting to express
the meaningless and chaotic mum
ble-jumble of instincts, inhibitions
and dimly felt emotions that char
acterize sdme of his other books.
In the story “Unused.” a tale that
is almost a short novel, there is a
revelation of the psychological ef
fect upon a young girl of a miser
able sex experience. But the sex
experience does not dominate the
story, nor is the girl a mere formless
medium for the expression of strug
gling and conflicting feelings. She
is real,, as ^eal as the flagrant
plumed hat that she is clutching in
her hand when they drag her out
of the bay. She is real, and the
homo she lives in is real and her
two sisters are real, and human, de
cidedly human. That’s it, partly.
Sherwood Anderson has become hu
man in a sort of every-day, !^ain
Street way, without being conquer
ed by the drabness of dull reality.
In “Milk Bottles,” another of the
stories in the group, he has (proved
himself able to express the inarticu
late articulately. He has given ex
pression to the unrealized thoughts
and emotions which underlie the
conscious and presumably deliberate
actions of his characters, without
losing himself jin word^ without ,
meaning, as he once had a tendency
to do.
Sherwood And^rsonl is fijiid to
have a prayer, “With these nervous
and uncertain hands, may I really
feel for the form of things con
cealed in the darkness.”
We can say of him truly now that
his hands are no longer uncertain.
He can reveal to us many things of
beauty and significance, long hidden
in darkness, and make them visible
to us in the light of his own vision.
For this he was groping before, but
when we had followed him into the
darkness, oftimes he lost us.—Nancy
Wilson.
Scribe Disappointed
In College Education
(Continued fFom page 1)
lowed—the weary days that fol
lowed.
For fifteen years I have pursued
my quest, and I have learned many
things. I have acquired a hodge
podge, a junk shop, of second-hand
ideas. And I have learned that
these are education. As I sit here,
I examine them, scrutinize them,
weigh them, and wonder if they are
worth the many years I have spent
in gathering them. My collection
will never be complete. Every day
I add to it. Already, it is very
large, and contains many strange
things. It contains things that are
of little value. It contains things
that are priceless. In dark corners
are hidden things—things I would
like to destroy, cast out, forget; but
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BOOK ENDS
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I can not. I have bought them and
paid for them, and they are mine
forever.
While on this quest, I have met
many other people who are on like
expeditions. I have asked them why
they are seeking this phantom, edu
cation; and they have told me it is
because they seek happiness, and
that education is the key to happi
ness. They have told me that educa
tion will open the door to power,
wealth, position, wisdom—and that
these are happiness. I do not under
stand this. Before I started on my
search for education, I had none of
these, and yet I was happy—far hap
pier than I ever hope to be again.
Simple foods satisfied me. Simple
pleasures thrilled me. I did not
care for books. For what were books
except poor tales of adventures
which were mine. So it was with
music, painting, sculpture, drama—
all of them mean substitutes for the
wonderous things which were mine.
I did not worry about why things
were. It was enough that they were.
I asked no more than each day
brought. I was content.
I have searched for the golden
fruit of knowledge, and now I have
it in my grasp. I raise it to my
mouth. Its fragile shell breaks—
and my lips close on nothing but
bitter ashes—the bitter, barren ashes
of disillusion.
The Y. W. C. A. will, this coming
week, collect presents, and make ar
rangements for taking baskets of
food to poor families of Eugene on
Christmas day.
Christmas Season
In New Zealand
(Continued from page one)
The race is announced, and off the
horses start. One horse is ahead, a
'second creeps up, there is a cheer
about furlongs. Next to you is a
woman with a tiny baby in her
arms. She is shouting wildly. The
baby nearly falls. A man in front
is cheering for “Neptune’s Son,”
a horse located somewhere in the
backfield, as it were. Nearer and
nearer the horses approach the end
of the race, the finish line itself is
reached. The crowd is mad, but
still hoping, each for his favorite.
A strange horse has crossed the line.
There is a sudden lull, then, a dis
mayed shout from many throats.
‘ ‘ ‘ Malaga ’ came in first, ’ ” a
friend whispers. An instant later
you understand the lull which fol
lowed the wild shouting. “Malaga”
was an unknown quantity before the
race.
The crowd flows down the stand
toward the totalisator, to watch the
computations performed on a black
board in the open air, and wonder
ing what the dividends will be on
the horses taking secnd and third
place.
For several, days the town talks
of how “Malaga” won the Auck
land Cup. The newspaper tells the
story of a business man who dream
ed that “Malaga” would win, and
following the hunch placed a 20
pounds wager. The business man re
ceived a dividend of more than
four hundred dollars.
My landlady sighed to me after
Christmas holidays were past.
“Well, thank goodness, no one in
the house got drunk this Christmas. ’ ’
But just the same the United
States of America is one of the hap
piest places in the entire world.
May the glorious holi
day bring you no end
of Joy, Peace and Con
tentment. Such is our
sincerest wish.
A TREAT FOR EVERYONE
The Castle Return Week of Favorites
_ *'
Six splendid features—a different one every day. The pictures that if you have
missed, you have always wanted to see—now is your chance to see them.
Check off the ones you haven’t seen an f remember the date. Every Picture a
proven success.
Each Picture in a Class by Itself. The Year’s Greatest Productions.
Starting
MONDAY
ONE DAY ONLY
PKEstMmmr
yssss L.usxr
Love, ft
Laughs
and 1
Racing \
Thrills!
WALLACE
REID
flcnoss The
Continent*
d (Unmount Qidun
Then
TUESDAY
Only
Gloria Swanson
*My American Wife'
The cast in
cludes, Antonio
An eye-filling romance in a
Spanish-American., setting.
Dazzling gowns, beautiful wo
men and an appealing love
Story.
One of Gloria’s most facinating
features.
And
on
WEDNESDAY
fx Ingram
Production
of John Russell’s
story
Where the
Pavement
Ends
with
Alice Terry
and
Ramon Novarro
Is A* masterpiece of the
maher ef "The Four Horse
men of the Apocalypse.”
A change of brand new Comedies with every show
CHANGING THURSDAY TO—
The flaming romance of the young
American and the Spanish dancer—
a saint with painted lips and
tapping heels.
RICHARD
Barthelmess
with y
Miss Dorothy Gish /
Jcsxph HcrytsheimtA / J
_ . ___ftomiVihV / \
V A
John S. ’JcLvujon
Prou.iciion
A hu r.cilotua'. TWiu**
— L-— '■ — —
WHILE FRIDAY SHOWS—
D. W. GRIFFITH’S
Epic of Screen Entertainment
“Way Down East”
A true Griffith Picture—with the Grif
fith cast and touch.
__l !___J
and then on Saturday comes the last but not least—Thomas
Meighan in:
“MANSLAUGHTER”