Rejections by Editors
Never again shall I feel a sense of shame and humiliation on receiving my rejected MS. and the printed slip. I have always suspected that it was on account of the editors’ lack of taste and discrimination; now I am sure of it. Indeed, I’m not quite sure but that it argues more to be rejected than to be accepted. I’m beginning to be proud of it. Read Henry Sydnor Harrison’s article in the April Atlantic—Adventures with the Editors—and see if you don’t feel the same way! Or, perhaps, you’ve never been rejected with the added ignominy of the printed slip. If so, don’t read this; it is not for you. But all ye rejected ones take renewed hope from this statement that an editor, actually an editor himself, has made:
“I think I can tell you why editors so frequently reject the earlier and often the best work of writers: it is because any new writer who sends in first-class work sends in work that is very different from what editors are used to.”
It reminds me of a time when I wrote, maliciously, I admit, to a certain well-known magazine, to tell its editors a story they had printed by a renowned author had been cribbed entire (unconsciously, possibly) from an old classic; and I told them, too, if they would prefer to print original stories, I had one on hand. I got back such a deliciously solemn reply regretting the unconscious plagiarism and asking me to send on any story I had. I did not do so, for the good and sufficient reason that I had already sent it to them several weeks previously, and had had it rejected without comment. No doubt it deserved to be rejected; every one else did the same with it. To be sure, one kindly editor took the pains to tell me why, personally. “The trouble is,” he said, “there isn’t enough story. Your character-drawing is both careful and sincere, however.” So it must have been dull to deserve anything like that. I wish we could hear a little more of the experiences of those poor rejected, who never do “get over the wall,” as Mr. Harrison terms it. I imagine it would be both illuminating and ludicrous.
And, oh! the happy moments I had on reading E. S. Martin’s comments, in Life, on Mr. Harrison’s article. Mr. Harrison makes the charge that magazines will print poor stories of well known writers in preference to good stories of the unknown, and Mr. Martin’s response is:
“It does not follow that the editors were wrong because they did not buy Mr. Harrison’s tales before Queed. Maybe they were not more than average stories. But after Queed they were stories by the author of Queed.... Queed pulled all Mr. Harrison’s past tales out of the ruck, and put them in the running. It was hardly fair to expect the editors to pick them for winners beforehand.”
What then are editors for, if not to “pick winners?” And Mr. Harrison says himself that Queed was rejected by two publishers. Probably it was hardly fair to expect the publishers to pick such a winner in advance. We, the rejected, have always humbly thought that was their occupation—their raison d’être. And if Mr. Harrison’s short stories were “not more than average stories,” doesn’t it prove his contention that average poor stories by the known are more acceptable to editors than good ones by the unknown?
At least I am going to think so, and some day I shall write an article on the lofty distinction of being rejected.
M. H. P.
The witty mind is the most banal thing that exists.—James Stephens in The English Review.
Sentence Reviews
The Goldfish: The Confessions of a Successful Man. Anonymous. [The Century Company, New York.] Proves conclusively, for anyone who may need such proof, that the “successful” man misses those adventures which William James ascribed to poverty: “The liberation from material attachments; the unbribed soul; the manlier indifference; the paying our way by what we are or do, and not by what we have; the right to fling away our life at any moment irresponsibly—the more athletic trim, in short, the fighting shape....”
Walt Whitman: A Critical Study, by Basil De Sélincourt. [Mitchell Kennerley, New York.] Any biography of Whitman which reveals a large understanding of his big poems of personality is notable. De Sélincourt proves in his closing sentence that he knows his subject, for it is the clearest and best characterization of the poet that has ever been written: “He rises ... above nationality and becomes a universal figure: poet of the ever-beckoning future, the ever-expanding, ever-insatiable spirit of man.”
Socialism: Promise or Menace? by Morris Hillquit and Rev. Dr. John A. Ryan. [The Macmillan Company, New York.] A sophomoric debate between two dogmatists that ran in Everybody’s Magazine. One instinctively feels that two evils are guised as panaceas and he will have neither of them. The church, of course, has the last word—in the book.
Penrod, by Booth Tarkington. [Doubleday, Page, and Company, New York.] At rare intervals we have a book on boys that holds the genuine boy boyeousness. The Real Diary of a Real Boy captivated us with the story of big little boys in a village; The Varmit told us of the irresponsible capers of little big boys in “prep” school; and now we have Penrod, in which Mr. Tarkington tells us much—well, of just boys.
Joseph Pulitzer: Reminiscences of a Secretary, by Alleyne Ireland. [Mitchell Kennerley, New York.] An extraordinarily interesting piece of Boswellizing.
Sadhana: The Realisation of Life, by Rabindranath Tagore. [The Macmillan Company, New York.] A quiet essay full of the queer charm of conquered strength memorable for at least one splendid sentence: “... life is immortal youthfulness, and it hates age that tries to clog its movements.” But Tagore is vying too much with Tango just now among people who can neither orient nor dance.
The Meaning of Art, by Paul Gaultier. Translation by H. & E. Baldwin. [J. B. Lippincott Company, Philadelphia.] What is art? This book gives the best answer that we have read, but when the author is psychological he is wrong, in most cases. He has a rare faculty of compelling one to read between his lines, and argue things out with oneself.
The Deaf: Their Position in Society, by Harry Best. [Thomas Y. Crowell Company, New York.] An astonishing compilation of facts and figures by a social economist who makes a morbid subject interesting to a healthy citizen unafraid of truth about life.
Hail and Farewell: Vale, by George Moore. [D. Appleton & Company, New York.] A completion of the most fascinating autobiography in the English language.
American Policy: The Western Hemisphere in Its Relation to the Eastern, by John Bigelow. [Charles Scribner’s Sons, New York.] Cautious discussions that respect diplomatic red tape interest patriotic pedants but bore personalities who are concerned with bigger things than national policies.
The Fortunate Youth, by William J. Locke. [John Lane Company, New York.] Has all the Locke charm—and all the Locke prettinesses. The dish has been served so often that it has become a bit tasteless. Most accurately described as the kind of story whose heroine is always called “princess” and whose hero rises from the slums to make flaming speeches in parliament and achieve the “Vision Splendid.” It will probably run into ten editions and bring much joy.
The Wonderful Visit, by H. G. Wells. [E. P. Dutton and Company, New York.] A reprint of a story published in 1895 which shows Mr. Wells in the very interesting position of groping toward his present altitude.
Sweetapple Cove, by George Van Schaick. [Small, Maynard, and Company, Boston.] The kind of sweet, gentle love story that a publisher would rather discover than anything Ethel Sidgwick could write. We searched in vain for just one page to hold our attention.
Idle Wives, by James Oppenheim. [The Century Company, New York.] Despite a narrative style that at times fairly suffocates with its emotionality, Mr. Oppenheim has put up a very strong case for the woman who demands something of life except having things done for her.
Bedesman 4, by Mary J. H. Shrine. [The Century Company, New York.] The outline is traditional: an English peasant boy makes his way through Oxford, becomes a brilliant historian and a “gentleman,” and marries a “lady.” But the treatment is fresh and delightful; there is something real about it.
Over the Hills, by Mary Findlater. [E. P. Dutton and Company, New York.] There are no new things to say about a Findlater novel. They are always good.
Sunshine Jane, by Anne Warner. [Little, Brown, and Company, Boston.] Jane has our own theory that one can get what he wants out of life if he wants it hard enough. Though we don’t advocate some of her “sunshine” sentimentalities.
The Full of the Moon, by Caroline Lockhart. [J. B. Lippincott Company, Philadelphia.] As superfluous as The Lady Doc. Those people who are always asking why such books as The Dark Flower should be written ought to turn their questioning to things of this type.
The Congresswoman, by Isabel Gordon Curtis. [Browne and Howell Company, Chicago.] The tale of an Oklahoma woman elected to congress which closes with a retreat—though not an ignominious one—to a little white house with a fireside and a conquering male.
The Last Shot, by Frederick Palmer. [Charles Scribner’s Sons, New York.] A war novel without a hero by a man who has experienced many wars.
The Women We Marry, by Arthur Stanwood Pier. [The Century Company, New York.] One of the most amateurish attempts to meet the modern demand for sex stories that we have seen.
A Child of the Orient, by Demetra Vaka. [Houghton Mifflin Company, New York.] A blend of Greek poetry and Turkish conquest and American progress in autobiographical form, by the Greek woman who wrote Haremlik.
Anybody but Anne, by Carolyn Wells. [J. B. Lippincott Company, Philadelphia.] A mystery story of which the most fascinating feature is the architect’s plan of the house in which it takes place.
The Flower-Finder, by George Lincoln Walton; with frontispiece by W. H. Stedman and photographs by Henry Troth. [J. B. Lippincott Company, Philadelphia.] Worth owning if merely for the end-papers which literally lead you into a spring woods. A comprehensive pocket guide to wild flowers.
Prisons and Prisoners: Personal Experiences of Constance Lytton and Jane Warton, Spinster. [George H. Doran Company, New York.] As Lady Lytton, an enthusiastic convert to militant suffrage, the author received courteous treatment in prison; disguised successfully as a middle-class old maid she was handled shamefully. Everyone who doubts the martyrdom or the intrepidity of the suffragettes ought to read this record.
Women as World Builders, by Floyd Dell. [Forbes and Company, Chicago.] Birdseye views of the feminist movement by a literary aviator whose cleverly-composed snapshots actually justify his cocksure audacity.
Women and Morality, by a mother, a father, and a woman. [The Laurentian Publishers, Chicago.] Men and immorality discussed bravely by two women and a man, without the artistic justification of “getting anywhere.”
Karen Borneman and Lynggaard & Co., by Hjalmar Bergström, translated from the Danish by Edwin Björkman; The Gods of the Mountain, The Golden Doom, King Argimenes and the Unknown Warrior, The Glittering Gate, and The Lost Silk Hat, by Lord Dunsany; Peer Gynt, by Henrik Ibsen, with introduction by R. Ellis Roberts. [Mitchell Kennerley, New York.] New volumes in The Modern Drama Series.
What Is It All About? A Sketch of the New Movement in the Theatre, by Henry Blackman Sell. [The Laurentian Publishers, Chicago.] The “art theatre” is explained illuminatingly for those who are vague about the movement. Condensed, to the point, and really informing.
The Beginning of Grand Opera in Chicago (1850-1859), by Karleton Hackett. [The Laurentian Publishers, Chicago.] Mr. Hackett is a man of ideas and he might have written an interesting book by taking “grand opera in Chicago” as his theme. Instead, he has done a hack job with its early history and been given the distinction of tasteful binding and printing.
Tuberculosis: Its Cause, Cure, and Prevention, by Edward O. Otis, M.D. [Thomas Y. Crowell Company, New York.] A revised edition of an old, popular book “for laymen.” Abounds in hard, cocksure rules that, if followed, ought to discourage any germ whose host could outlive it. A valuable work for persons who must have a definite programme to guide them in fighting an always individualized disease.
Roget’s Thesaurus of English Words and Phrases, classified and arranged so as to facilitate the expression of ideas and assist in literary composition, edited by C. O. Sylvester Mawson. [Thomas Y. Crowell Company, New York.] A revised edition in large type on thin paper.
Richard Wagner: The Man and His Work, by Oliver Huckel. [Thomas Y. Crowell Company, New York.] Between W. J. Henderson’s characterization of Wagner as “the greatest genius that art has produced” and Rupert Brooke’s as an emotionalist with “a fat, wide, hairless face” there ought to be a man worth biographies ad infinitum. Dr. Huckel’s is simply a clear condensation for the general reader of standard biographical material, and is worth while.
The Book of the Epic: All the World’s Great Epics Told in Story, by H. A. Guerber; with introduction by J. Berg Esenwein. [J. B. Lippincott Company, Philadelphia.] The most satisfying compilation in the field that has ever been offered to the young student or general reader.
The Practical Book of Garden Architecture, by Phebe Westcott Humphreys. [J. B. Lippincott Company, Philadelphia.] A weighty chronicle of garden architecture, observations in many lands and under many conditions. “A pick up and browse” book for the nature lover, with delightful illustrations and much interesting general data of sunny gardens, cobble walls, and running streams.
I am that which unseen comes and sings, sings, sings; which babbles in brooks and scoots in showers on the land, which the birds know in the woods, mornings and evenings, and the shore-sands know, and the hissing wave.—Walt Whitman.
Letters to The Little Review
A. S. K., Chicago:
With your permission I shall try to explain why I am not enthusiastic about the second issue of your magazine:
The crime of the April issue lies in the fact of its closely following (chronologically) the issue of March. In the beginning you appeared to us as a prophet, and we wistfully listened to your unique message; now you have degenerated into a priest, a dignified station indeed, but don’t you think there are already more priests than worshippers in our Temple? If you are going to be “one of many” I question the raison d’être of The Little Review.
Your debut was a revelation, a new word, a rejuvenating breeze in the tepid atmosphere of our periodical press. It was a wonderful number, all fresh and beautiful; even the one or two grotesque pieces that had smuggled in drowned in the mass of splendor, just as the heavy colors of the rainbow soften in the powerful symphony of the spectrum.
Now, frankly, would you sign your name under every article of the April Review? I hope not! You have turned your temple into a parliament of dissonances; you have admitted Victorian ladies and sentimental crucifiers of Nietzsche; you have even polluted your pages with an anti-Bathhouse tirade! Then that cacophony of personal letters: I blushed at the sight of these tokens of familiarity and tappings over your shoulder on the part of the benevolent readers. I wished to shout to the Misses Jones to keep off the altar, lest they besmirch your white robe with their penny compliments and saccharine effusions.
I could hardly make myself believe that this irritating copy was The Little Review.
Pardon this frankness. But I wish you success, not popularity.
Mary W. Ohr, Indianapolis:
Let me tell you how much pleasure you have given me in the second issue of your magazine. You are certainly to be congratulated upon having the initiative to start anything so great as this.
I have reserved writing to you until now, for I wished to avoid the appearance of trying to tear down or discourage an effort that was so much bigger than anything I could ever achieve. Your article on The Dark Flower made me feel that possibly intolerance might be your stumbling block, and that your youth and enthusiasm might lead you into many pitfalls that might not be for the betterment of your work. But this number has made me your equal in enthusiasm, and I believe The Little Review is here to stay.
Verne DeWitt Rowell, London, Ontario:
The Little Review is a whirlwind surprise. There is nothing like it in America. I am glad to see you playing up Nietzsche. Over here in this little town we have a Nietzschean vogue, and we are all delighted. Truly the intellectual center of America has shifted westward. To be sure, New York has The International; but Chicago has The Little Review, The Trimmed Lamp, and one or two other magazines of real literature. Then there is Burns Lee’s Bell Cow in Cleveland. Nietzsche is coming into his own at last. Wishing every success to The Little Review, which is one of the two best magazines in America (the other is Current Opinion).
Mollie Levin, Chicago:
The formal bow that The Little Review made to the public in its first issue violated tradition beautifully by doing what formal bows never do—really mean something. It is glorious to be young and enthusiastic, and still more so to be courageous; and whatever goes into The Little Review in that spirit is admirable, regardless of any reader’s personal judgment.
It’s good, too, to have used The Little Review: It makes me think of a child—beautiful in its present stage and with promise of infinite fulfillment.
Marie Patridge, Clearfield, Pa.:
I’ve been tremendously interested in the second issue. It seems to me your critic is wrong in speaking of juvenility or the restrictive tone of the magazine. It’s exactly that which gives The Little Review an excuse for being, that it is not like all other magazines with their cut-and-dried precision and their “Thus saith the Lord” attitude toward things.
As time goes on I think it will be wise to enlarge the scope—more of drama, more of music, more of world politics and science. You will thus get away from the aesthetic tendency which your critic mentions.
I enjoyed the Wells discussion so much. And yet Miss Trevor doesn’t advance any real arguments. It’s very easy to call people muddle-headed and vaguely sentimental, but an appeal to the upbuilding of character isn’t slushy. I’m inclined to agree with “M. M.,” though I’d like to hear an advanced—not a hysterical—argument on the subject. I’m willing to be convinced of the other side, but assuredly it would take something stronger and sterner and more logical than Miss Trevor.
[The suggestion about enlarging our scope is one we hoped no one would make until we had done it, that being the plan closest to our hearts. We can only explain our shortcomings in this regard by referring to a homely but reasonable saying about not being able to do everything at once.—The Editor.]
Mabel Frush, Chicago:
You have invited frank criticism, and that is my reason for not writing at first: I could not accept it all. In the first place, regarding Paderewski. Do you never find him a bit over-powering; do you never feel that a trifle more restraint might give greater strength? In Grieg, for instance, does he carry you up into the high places, give you that impression of unlimited space, rugged strength, and wild beauty? Is he not too subjective?
I quite agree with you as regards Chopin and Schumann. There he is satisfying. His interpretations carry a quality that other artists sometimes treat too lightly; forgetting “a man’s reach must exceed his grasp,” and so sacrificing the greater to the lesser in striving for perfection. Impotency is the price of ultra-civilization.
Your comments on temperament are interesting, but I feel you are not quite fair in your comparisons. Is not Paderewski’s genius largely a racial gift? To me all Russian (or Polish) art—both creative and interpretative—possesses the flame of the elemental, that generative quality which marks the difference between technical perfection and living, breathing, throbbing art. Appreciating that “all music is what awakens in you when reminded by the instrument,” he strives for but one thing: an emotional releasement that results in a temperamental orgy which leaves his hearers dazed, lost in the labyrinth of their own emotions.
As for Rupert Brooke’s poetry, I regard him as decadent—at least too much so to be really vital. Perhaps my vision is clouded, but I could as easily conceive of Johnson worshipping at the shrine of Boswell as of Whitman liking Brooke. Now and then he impresses me as being effete, and I can never separate him from a cult, though I do delight in some of his poems.
Mrs. William H. Andrews, Cleveland:
May I put in my little word and wish you all good speed, editor of The Little Review?
You evidently live in the clear blue sky where fresh enthusiasms rush on like white clouds bearing us irresistibly along. Life grows even more vivid under such stimulating courage and pulsing optimism.
The world is indeed wonderful if we but live it passionately, as did Jean Christophe and Antoine, leaping forward, breasting the waves, with music in the soul. My ears are singing with the third movement of Tschaikowsky’s immortal Pathetique, which to me, in larger part, so belies its name.
Hail to The Little Review! May it dart “rose-crowned” along its shining way, emblazoning the path for many of us.
Mary Carolyn Davies, New York:
I have just finished reading The Little Review from cover to cover, and much of it twice over.
Thank you for loving the things I love, and thank you for being young and not being afraid to be young! This is such a good day to be young in!
With all good wishes for the success of The Little Review (though it needs no good wishes, for it cannot help succeeding).
P. H. W., Chicago:
The article on Mrs. Meynell in your April issue sounded a little curious in its surroundings, as it was a piece of pure criticism and The Little Review is the official organ of exuberance. It is the only one, in fact, and it is a good thing to have such an organ.
The “Best Sellers”
The following books, arranged in order of popularity, have been the “best sellers” in Chicago during April: