The fear of living

THE FEAR OF LIVING
(La Peur de Vivre)
HENRY BORDEAUX
AUTHORIZED ENGLISH VERSION BY RUTH HELEN DAVIS
NEW YORK E·P·DUTTON & COMPANY PUBLISHERS
COPYRIGHT, 1913 BY E. P. DUTTON & COMPANY
TO THE HALLOWED MEMORY OF ANOTHER MOTHER WHO KNEW HOW TO SACRIFICE FOR HER CHILDREN THIS TRANSLATION IS AFFECTIONATELY DEDICATED BY HER DAUGHTER RUTH HELEN DAVIS
M. Henry Bordeaux’s latest novel, “The Fear of Living,” appeared several months ago, at a season when the “summer novel” was flourishing. That season belongs to the big purveyors of commercial literature and is not the time at which to speak of a real writer. I have, therefore, purposely postponed until to-day my few words about this book, which both public and press have welcomed warmly, but without sufficiently marking its true place. It is one of the best novels that has appeared for a long time. It contrasts, by its vivid originality, with everything that the storytellers of to-day give us. It is a new and daring departure.
It is that, primarily, through the philosophy of life which the author has expressed in it. The “fear of living” is a new and deep-seated evil among us. We value our peace above everything, we wish to keep it at all hazards, however dearly we must pay for it. We shun responsibilities, avoid risks and chances of struggle, flee from adventure and danger, seek to escape from everything that makes for the charm and value of life. We no longer have any faith in the future, because we no longer have faith in ourselves. Writers used for a time to chronicle this sickly weakness under the name of “dilettantism.” Then, the fashion having changed, they began to exalt the claims of energy. But what they understand by that word is nothing but the keen desire to satisfy our passions and ambitions. In place of lazy selfishness they have substituted ruthless selfishness. To spare oneself all kinds of boredom, or to procure oneself the greatest amount of pleasure, these are the only two conceptions they recommend to us. But here is a writer who thinks that to live does not mean to bury oneself in a corner, nor yet to amass money and wear oneself I out with pleasure. He thinks that a life in which I one has suffered, struggled, and worked for others, not for oneself, that a life whose years are counted by emotions, sacrifices, devotions, and renunciations, is a well-filled life. He says it, he believes it, and, while we read it, he makes us believe it. It may be absurd, extravagant, and romantic to the last degree but it is not commonplace.