Life — January 1, 1920 — page 28: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

IGHT, by Henri Barbusse. (E. P. Dutton & Co.) The good American will finish M, Barbusse’s Light with gratitude that M. Barbusse ix a Frenchman. If he were an American, he would be made a senator or a Secretary of the Treasury or a member of the Interstate Com merce Commission, and he would be an exceedingly bad one. Being a French- man, he will simply go on being a man of ideas, and an exceedingly good one. That is because the French know how to handle men of ideas. They are used to them. They put them in institutes and academies, and places of that sort, and give them something to do in these— and ribbons and respect, and let them go on playing with ideas, things that cannot be hurt. We send ours to Washington, and let them play with soldiers and ships, and sugar and railroads, which are very delicate things. But Light is a very well worth while book, It is not a novel, though; it is a book about ideas, and it is not so good a book as Le Feu, was that and a novel, too. Feu with the fire gone out. The Honorable Gentleman and Others, by Achmed Abdullah. (G. P, Putnam Sons.) The literary discovery of Pell Street is announced by Mr. Achmed Ab- dullah in The Honorable Gentleman and Others, and all those who intend to take a trip to Chinatown should read it. It will be very much the more interesting of the two adventures, and about as in. structive. The Call of the Soil, by Adrien Bert- rand, (John Lane Company.) This story of three philosophers in uniform has had the Prix Goncourt of 1916, but the same thing has been so much better done since then that it falls a little flat. Besides, it is a war story of a now ancient date—1914. Brute Gods, by Louis Wilkinson. (Al- fred A. Knopf.) The tremendous tragedy of a silly little boy suitable for silly little girls. Colas Breugnon, Burgundian, by Ro- main Rolland. (Henry Holt & Co.) Ro main Rolland in a rollicksome vein, but, alas, the vein is not a very deep one. The author of Jean Christophe, it seems, is try ing to write like Rabelais,.but the result is painfully like a ponderous Pollyanna, which Light is Le Rhymed Reviews The Moon and Sixpence (By WW, Somerset Maugham. Geo. H Doran Company) ESIDE the blazing grate I read Of Charlie Strickland, London broker (A famous painter since he’s dead), And yearned to smite him with the poker. This paragon of late romance At forty, wife and babes deserting, Betook himself to Paris, France, To spend his days in color-squirting. He had no gratitude, no shame, No decency; his one obsession Was neither wealth nor future fame; He lived for private self-expression A foolish painter saved his life; Of course the flinty-hearted grafter Made haste to steal the fellow’s wife, And threw her over shortly after. Next, wanting warmer scenes instead Of northern landscapes, gray and sleety, He sailed to tropic isles and wed A dusky belle of Otaheite. ‘Three gorgeous years, remote from men, He scattered color like a prism, Succumbed to leprosy, and then Became the god of Futurism This Tract reveals how, misapplied, As by the hero of the story, A Sixpence labelled “Art” may hide The Moon of Life in all its glory ; And what a waste it is to spoil Good canvas made of flax or cotton; For, water-color, chalk or oil, T know that Strickland’s daubs were rotten. Arthur Guite man. Mare (Dutton.) ing. Chang. » Winds, by St. John Ervine. (Macmillan.) The best novel of the year. Wit. Style. Character. Nostrum, by Blasco. Ibaiez Big writing, but heavy read- Ramsey Milholland, by Booth Tark ington. (Doubleday, Page & Co.) Amusing love story in the author's well- known vein. Somewhat disappointing, but readable. Sylvia and Michael, by Compton Mac kenzie. (Harper’s.) Sequel to Sylvia. And not quite so good. Saint's Progress, by John Galsworthy (Scribner.) War love story. Worth while. Heartbreak House, Great Catheri and Playlets of the War, by George Ber- nard Shaw. (Brentano’s.) Heartbreak House marks the reappearance of Mr. Shaw before his old audience, composed of everybody in the world who hates cullness, There it will delight beyond measure, for it is the most daring ex travaganza since Man and The pseudo-Shavians, after the manner of their kind, will probably find in it a meaning, a message of some sort, but the Lord only knows how in this case The Paris of the Novelists, by Arthur Bartlett Maurice. (Doubleday, Page & Co.) Is there a special Paris for the novelists? If there were, doubtless this would be a very good book about it, for Mr. Maurice knows a great deal about Paris and an amazing number of novels, and he knows how to write, and espe cially knows how to write anecdotes. Nevertheless, the book is only a series of anecdotes separated by dreary stretches of topography. The Bishop, by Anton Chekov. (Trans Constance Garnett.) (The Macmillan Company.) Seven tales of piety and peasants in Russia. (N. B.—This is the seventh volume of a set of Chekov which the house is getting out, and is not the first translation of these stories.) A Damsel in Distress, by Pelham Gren ville Wodehouse. (George H. Doran & Co.) A poor narrative made readable by very good dialogue. And it is mostly dialogue. John Stuyvesant Ancestor, by Alvin Johnson. (Harcourt, Brace & Howe.) Twenty-one stories, all good, and some excellent. Deadham Hard, by Lucas Malet (Dodd. Mead & Co.) Ponderous; with out the enthusiasm that lightened the mass of Richard Calmady. Superman comicbooks.com