Life, 1912-07-25 · page 27 of 41
Life — July 25, 1912 — page 27: what you’re looking at
What you’re looking at
This page satirizes **Henry James**, the famous American novelist known for his elaborate, psychologically complex prose style. The cartoon depicts two figures representing James debating his own literary approach. **The satire's point:** James and his alter ego discuss how their ornate writing style developed from simple habits—they craved "ambiguousness" and deliberately made their work difficult to understand. The conversation mocks James's pretentious artistic justifications while suggesting the complexity is partly affectation and habit rather than genuine necessity. **Key joke:** James admits their obscure style "fascinates the many people that don't know, but think that they know"—satirizing how intellectually intimidating writing attracts readers seeking status rather than understanding. The accompanying poem "Pantoum of Current Literature" reinforces the critique by portraying a reader overwhelmed by the sheer volume of books being published, unable to keep up—implying that verbose, difficult literature contributes to this exhausting cultural overproduction.
📄 Transcribed text from this page (OCR, searchable)
Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.
“EDPE* Intimate Interviews ENRY JAMES sat upon the latest definitive editions of his works, with his feet hanging over, whittling upon an ancient stick; and as he whit- tled he looked up at Henry James, who just came in with a volume of “Daudet” under his arm. “If you weren't Henry James,” he said, “who would you be?” “Don't talk riddles to me; feel like it. Besides, when I don't we are “Don't talk alone together, my boy, we are sim- ple; there is nothing ornate about us.” “That is quite true, and it leads me to remark that we seem to be an ception to the rule that the style is the man, Outwardly we are intricate, and inwardly and intimately we are almost crude in our simplicity. How do you account for it?” “T account for it in the same way that I account for the gradual develop- ment of any abnormal habit. Being of Je nature, ‘itement of am- an exceedingly sim we be- gan by craving the biguousness; and when we wrote, Henry, we thought if we could de- lineate subtly, and could deal with vague and psychological distinctions of character, that we would be writing works of art.” “Well, we did; didn’t we? Every- body admits that we are an artist. And how could we express what we have expressed unless we had perfect- ed our present sty’ riddles to me” “Nonsense! You are talking through your hat. Why, you've even got so that you believe in yourself, Henry. Don’t you know that this idea of writ- ing so that you cannot be understood —this highbrow intellectual art atti- tude—is something that never fools the few people that know?” “But it fascinates the many people that don't know, but think that they know.” “As if you would stoop to that— or I, for that matter.” “No, Henry; this style of ours is Asta weeb Aaa “ONE OF THE LANDED GENTRY” Pantoum of Current Literature DON'T know where I shall begin; The books are on my table piled, The magazines are coming in ;— It is enough to drive one wild! The books are on my table piled — It is discouraging, | vow; It is enough to drive one wild! Why do they write them, anyhow? It is discouraging, I vow, I cannot read such piles of stuff. Why do they write them, anyhow? Already we have books enough. I cannot read such piles of stuff,— Here is the postman at the door,— Already we have books enough, Ob, what if he should bring me more! Here is the postman at the door, He casts upon me pitying looks. Oh, what if he should bring me more Of those unread, unopened books! He casts upon me pitying looks, I take my mail without a word. Of those unread, unopened books, is about the twenty-third! L take my mail without a word,— I don't know where I shall begin, This is about the twenty-third, The magazines are coming in! Carolyn Wells. just a bad habit, that’s all; it’s been growing upon us for years. When we haven't anything better to do, we write vaguely. “But we're a pretty good Henry.” fellow, ne better. Although I wouldn't say this to anybody but you.”