of individuals-for they are individuals, rather than types.
But brilliant and powerful as it is-even magnificent, at times--Look Homeward, Angel has a sickness in its marrow, a sickness of divided aims and of dislikes that are everywhere stronger than likes, "Eugene," says the author, "was quite content with any system which would give him comfort, security, enough money to do as he liked, and freedom to think, eat, drink, love, read and write what he chose. And he did not care under what form of government he lived-Republican, Democrat, Tory, Socialist or Bolshevist --if it could assure him those things." Maybe Eugene could be indifferent to "systems" without harm, but I do not think that Mr. Wolfe can be. The separation of art from life can only be injurious and confusing. Let us hope it will not be a permanent separation, for Thomas Wolfe is too fine a writer to succumb to the defeatism which might be called Cabellian.
Elizabeth Madox Roberts
Elizabeth Madox Roberts's fourth novel, The Great Meadow, shows all her fine qualities at their best. . . . What is the subject matter? In general this time it is the westward push of the pioneers from Virginia across the mountains that brought the Watauga and Cumberland settlements into Tennessee, and Boone's Fort and Harrod's Fort into Kentucky. Of course Miss Roberts is writing specifically about Kentucky, which is her own state, and about people that are her own people in a real ancestral sense. The Great Meadow