First Person Singular

Again and again in letters, in manuscripts, and in conversation I have met the thought, ‘This is the last summer of the old world — whatever comes after will be different.’ Beneath the surface of our lives, beneath the gayety of the June wedding and the summer hop, there ran the apprehension that the old order was changing and that we should look back on those days before the nation was aroused as one looks back on an Edwardian garden party. To live in an atmosphere of apprehension and uncertainty one must have faith —faith in our own resourcefulness, faith in the magnificent destiny of this country.

Prompted by the urgency of this autumn is Anne Morrow Lindbergh’s little book, The Wave of the Future (Harcourt, Brace, $1.00), a book which will give pause to those who feel that we are moving unavoidably in the direction of war, and fresh courage to those who believe that we can still do our part ‘short of war.’ Mrs. Lindbergh believes that we — and the rest of civilization — have been caught up in a great historical process. She likens it to an overwhelming wave. She believes that this Wave of the Future is curling down on us and that there is no fighting it. She believes that with our heritage of reform we can rebuild democracy in this country and in so doing be swept along by the Wave of the Future in comparative peace. Is this essentially a woman’s doctrine? Is it too passive for men to live by? Does it ignore the cry of kinship, the old affiliations of blood and culture which so stir our sympathies today? I have no right to answer for you. It is enough to suggest the questions which arise from the deep feeling and crystal expression of this little book.

When Lowell, during what proved to be his final illness, was asked by somebody how he was, he looked up from the book he had been reading and answered, ‘ I don’t know and I don’t care. I am reading Rob Roy.' When the more obvious values begin to totter, says Paul Jordan Smith, the only wealth worth having is the wealth of the mind. Upon that truth Vincent Starrett has composed a most agreeable volume for dark days Books Alive (Random House, $3.oo). In it he speaks as an author, collector, editor, and paramour of literature. Observe what a fresh appetite he gives you for Plutarch’s Lives, Sherlock Holmes (of whom he knows almost more than the author); Robinson Crusoe (with a side helping of Selkirk); Somerset Maugham (and the feud over Cakes and Ale); Voltaire and Sterne (whose last paragraph in the Sentimental Journey Starrett says is the most tantalizing episode in literature). Savor his flow of spicy anecdote, of odd things he has picked up about plagiarism, theft, and literary hoax — all of this made appetizing by a most unconventional index prepared by Christopher Morley. The index itself is an inspiration. Let me quote one single reference: ’Mein Kampf, written in prison, 82. Sequel, ditto hoped for, 83.’

Ten months ago we embarked on a new and, as we hoped, invigorating policy for our Bookshelf. Under the old system, Atlantic reviews averaged six hundred words in length, and, because of the problem of space, we had to be content with reviewing no more than fifteen new books an issue. Hence, out of the five thousand new titles published each year the Atlantic could review only one hundred and fifty. This system had the advantage of identifying the critic and of allowing him an entire column in which to color his judgment; it had the obvious disadvantage of neglecting a number of worthy books.

The new editorial policy was planned to cover more books without loss of individuality or authority. The opening page would be reserved for a signed review of what we took to be the most timely book that month; then would come my page of personal opinion and correspondence, and thereafter miniature book reviews, condensed, candid, tight-packed, treating as many as thirty books an issue. These paragraphs, although unsigned, were not to be the work of the Office Cat: in fact, they have been written for us each month by Albert Jay Nock, Elizabeth Drew, Richard E. Danielson, Wilson Follett, Frances Woodward, and H. B. Elliston — a staff of critics, as we believe, second to none.

Now what about it? As the shock absorber, I should like to know the reader’s preference. I have heard a variety of opinions. An eminent jurist ruled that the miniature reviews were too snippety, too short, and added that he personally did not give a fig for unsigned copy. Yet William Price of Philadelphia thinks differently. In his letter of appreciation he said that they have been ‘concise, full of meat, and have had that quality which has made me want to read the book under discussion.’ Now what about it? Where does the majority stand?

EDWARD WEEKS