I8 T1;i BAII'TIEPI NDTil
hooks and Authors Scot F r
(A Review by C. . B.)
"ROSINANTE TO THE ROAD ingly trying to Temould, pitifully sure Some time ago "The Beantiful and
AGAIN?' of the power of his own ideal. And in Damned," by F. Scott Fitzgerald
John- Dos Passos. these two Spain seemed to be mani (Scribners), was reviewed in these
(A Review by t. B. S.) feot." columns in a mildly adverse manner.
From the sordid warscape of filth,' It is not until the trip is nearly Although a decent respect for the ties
sweat, blood, and' drunkenness, John ended that they find the real gesture, of intimate friendship which exist be-
DosPassos has turned to the rich that they actuallyfeel it. tween the critic in question and my-
and colorful beauty of Spain, and once
again has proved ,that he is the . "Walking about here in these empty self places a limit upon my usually
zigzag streets I have suddenly felt rasping sarcasm, nevertheless I
thorough artist. Even those who could familiar with it all, as if it were a
see nothing more. than contemptible part of me, as if I had soaked up
propaganda in his tremendous novel, some essence out of it.... ion alongside of his condemnation.
"Three Soldiers," cannot help but "It's like'learning to swim. For a He considers the book, I gather, as a
realize the sheer loveliness of his new long time you flounder about, it's un- mere harlequinade, a piece of glori-
essays, "Rosinante to the Road pleasant and gets up your nose and fled buffonery, feeble as a plot, padded
.an,, a)you choke. Then all at once you are in order that it may bear its descrep-
Again (Doran). swimming like a duck. That's how itude with a degree' of ease and grace
There seems to be something in the I feel about all this....The challenge 'o
brilliance and opulence of Spain that was that woman dancing in Madrid, utterly meaningless, and undeniably
pounds with the blood through' the dancing, dancing.... bad.
system of the painter or writer. This
subtle influence has insinuated itself It is plainly a book of mood. The I admit that Harlequin and Colum-
into Dos Passos. He is drunk with first chapter is as fine a piece of writ- bine romp and scamper hither and
it. He and his friend-Telemachus ing as one will run across i' many thither from bacchanal to bacchanal
and Lyaeus, they whimsically call a hundred volumes of contemporary jwith all the thoughtless, joyous action
themselves-sit in a Madrid tavern, literature. Dos Passos has a deft way of youth. The atmosphere of the
and Telemachus,. filled with a throb- of translating sensations into words; story, although relieved here and
bing, sensuous' joy of life, wonders and the reader is bewitched into feel- there by a touch of gravity, bears out,
"why lie is here." They go to the ing that he is in a charmed land it seems, the apparent foolishness of
stage and the songs and the dances where all things are possible. Anthony's slogan on the title page:
sarrteaath .sngandce danmesn Outi"The victor belongs to the spoils." To
carry them away. A dancer comes on .Outside of The gently flowing des- those of us whose eyes are especially
tle stage: criptive quality of his work, Dos Pas- sharp for, and whose ears are particu-
"She is right at the footlights; her sos shows a rare critical faculty. larly attuned to, the ironical-pessi-
face, brows drawn together into a Haroja, Blasco Ibanez, Benavente, mistic, there are ocasional vestiges
frown, has gone into. shadow, the Machada, Maragall, and others are de- of a causticity which our own expert-
shawl flames, the maroon flow over her lighffully and shrewdly disctssed, ence in life aids us to recognize. Allow
is silent, her fingers go on snapping both in relation to their writings and me to quote.
at intervas'with dreadful foreboding. to their environment. The essays are "d n
held together by a faint narrative ' peoplehad been urging
Then she draws herself up wills a deep
threall and the recurring chapters him to submit to mediocrity, to go
breath, the muscles of her belly g ak'yto work "
taut under the tight silk wrinkles "Talk by the Road"; bat they can be " t '
of the shawl, and she i off again, ead separately. A fine feeling for Great tears stood i his eys, and
.light, joyful, turning indulgent words and an intense awareness of a his voice was trembling as he whis-
'glances toward the audience, as ' a scarcely defined beauty pervades pered to himself."
nurse might look in the eyes of a child them all. In short, "Rosinante to the "'I showed them,' he was saying.
she has unintentionally frightened Road Again" is a book to be read and 'It was a hard fight, but I didn't give
with a too dreadful fairy story." reread. up and I came through!'"
They come out of the theatre, still
under the delicious charm of lights ?Ililtit111IIIIIItiilU =I
and music. "The streets were dry
and the stars blinked in the cold wind
above the houses. At the curb old
women sold chestnuts and little rag-
ged boys shouted the newspapers.
"'And now do you wonder, Tel, why
you are here?'"
In a cafe Telemachus gropes vague
ly to put his feeling into words, to ex- ESTINGHOSE
press the "gesture of Castile";
"That gesture, a yellow flame
against maroon and purple cadences
... n instant swagger of defiance in
the midst of a litany to death the all-
powerful. That is Spain....Castile at
any rate"
Such is the mood- of the first chapT
ter, "A Gesture and a Quest." Tramp Toast, eggs, bacon, chops an
ing from town to town they seek thatsteaks can be prepared at the
elusive something, a word, a -phrase,
a sensation that will sum up the spirit table in mot appetizng ways
of Spain. But they find not one Spat
but many Spains. Later they come
upon a twilight scene; on the Toaster tove
"There were soldiers and servant
girls, and red-cheeked apprentice-boys
with their sweethearts, and respect It's one of the handiest Elec-
able shop-keepers, and their wives
with mantillas over their gleaming trical Conveniences.
black hair. All were dancing in and
out among the slim tree-trunks, and
the air was noisy with laughter and
little cries of childlike unfeigned en-
joyment. Here was the gospel of
Sancho Panza, I thought, the easy ac-
ceptance of life, the unashamed joy in
food and color and softness of wo- The Detrot Edison Co
men's hair. But as I walked out of -
the village across the harsh plain of COR. MAIN AND 'WILLIAM STREETS
Castile, grey-green and violet under P E
the deepening night, the memory came PHONE 2300
to me of the knight of the sorrowful
countenance, Don Quixote, blunder-
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