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Sherwood Anderson is not an old man, but he has found life full enough to spill into an autobiography and he has recently written a great book—A Story Teller's Story*; He was born in Ohio, was Sherwood Anderson, of simple people, part Italian. He had a father who delighted in romantic lies and a mother who cared in a detached but positive way for her three sons. Of these early days Sherwood Anderson tells with simplicity and understanding. He draws great characters in his slow, involved, rhythmical way. Yet the greatest character is himself, the artist struggling against the philosopher, the doer struggling with the dreamer. This is a book everyone should read. It is, in my humble opinion, a great piece of autobiographical writing. This was his conflict; this was his problem from the earliest days. He essayed heroism in the Spanish War, being of the stuff of his father, who dreamed dreams of heroism in the Civil War and spun tales of visualized if not actual valor. Then Anderson became a manufacturer. He owned a factory. In a factory, the soul is destroyed, but before destruction sets in, the soul is puzzled. Mr. Anderson asked his soul a few questions and received clear answers. He put on his hat and coat one morning and left office, town, personality, responsibilities. His soul, artistic, forced him to forego the more bitter obligations of life. Fetters fell from him and he strode out to be the great story teller he is.
It has often been said that Mr. Anderson has no sense of humor. This is only partially true. Wit is present in his autobiography, though seldom in his novels. Many Marriages (TIME, Mar. 10, 1923) with its fun unintended, becomes understandable in tIe light of the autobiography. One can almost forgive him for that odd book after reading this fine one.
What an amazing man he is. Simple, stalwart, with his waving hair, his clinging eyes, his dreamy voice— yet for all this shyness, this modesty, both in personality and in print, a furious and insistent egotist. His future, it seems to me, depends largely on his ability or inability to come to some conclusion about himself. He should go a step farther in his egocentric career. He should come out boldly to himself with the statement that he undoubtedly believes what many of his critics announce. Why not say it out loud, Mr. Anderson: "I am the American Balzac!" J.F.
*ELSIE AND THE CHILD—Arnold Bennett— Doran ($2.50).
*A Story Teller's Story—Sherwood Anderson—Huebsch ($3.00)