A Book of Prefaces

COPYRIGHT, 1917, BY ALFRED A. KNOPF, Inc. Published September, 1917 Second edition, 1918 Third edition, August, 1920 Reprinted, January, 1922
Set up, electrotyped and printed by Vail-Ballou Co., Binghamton, N. Y. Paper (Warren's) furnished by Henry Lindenmeyr & Sons, New York, N. Y. Bound by the Plimpton Press, Norwood, Mass. MANUFACTURED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
This fourth printing of A Book of Prefaces offers me temptation, as the third did, to revise the whole book, and particularly the chapters on Conrad, Dreiser and Huneker, all of whom have printed important new books since the text was completed. In addition, Huneker has died. But the changes that I'd make, after all, would be very slight, and so it seems better not to make them at all. From Conrad have come The Arrow of Gold and The Rescue, not to mention a large number of sumptuous reprints of old magazine articles, evidently put between covers for the sole purpose of entertaining collectors. From Dreiser have come Free, Twelve Men, Hey, Rub-a-Dub-Dub and some chapters of autobiography. From Huneker, before and after his death, have come Unicorns, Bedouins, Steeple-Jack, Painted Veils and Variations. But not one of these books materially modifies the position of its author. The Arrow of Gold, I suppose, has puzzled a good many of Conrad's admirers, but certainly The Rescue has offered ample proof that his old powers are not diminished. The Dreiser books, like their predecessors that I discuss here, reveal the curious unevenness of the author. Parts of Free are hollow and irritating, and nearly all of Hey, Rub-a-Dub-Dub is feeble, but in Twelve Men there are some chapters that rank with the very best of The Titan and Jennie Gerhardt. The place of Dreiser in our literature is frequently challenged, and often violently, but never successfully. As the years pass his solid dignity as an artist becomes more and more evident. Huneker's last five works changed his position very little. Bedouins, Unicorns and Variations belong mainly to his journalism, but into Steeple-Jack, and above all into Painted Veils he put his genuine self. I have discussed all of these books in other places, and paid my small tribute to the man himself, a light burning brightly through a dark night, and snuffed out only at the dawn.