Books Reviewed

Sun (Auckland), Volume IV, Issue 979, 23 May 1930, Page 16

Books Reviewed

A POET'S ADVENTURES -VTR. D’ARCY CRESSWELL is known to many New Zealanders as a provocatively clever young man who has written many brilliant newspaper articles and a number o£ poems. Mr. Cresswell prefers to base his claim to fame on his poetic works although he might reasonably do so on his prose which is uniformly graceful and rich in quality. A year or so ago Wells, Gardner, Darton and Company published a volume of his poems and now Faber and Faber have produced “The Poet’s Progress”; and a remarkably good book it is. Mr. Cresswell has always more or less despised conventionality and his search for adventure or the Absolute, or whatever it is he is questing for, has taken him to many lands and placed him in some queer situations. In “The Poet’s Progress” he discusses not only these adventures, but adventures of the mind. It is a precious record that will stand comparison with the work of some of the greatest -writers in this genre. The brutal necessity of having to earn a living is often a brake on the wheel of adventure. It was not so with Mr. Cresswell, who chose to set out on the high road, knapsack on his back, selling his poems, in sheet form, to those who would buy his wares. Thus he traversed England, and if his labours made him none the richer in the material sense, his storehouse of memories was lavishly filled. Sometimes he slept in the dear old inns that dot the countryside of England; sometimes under the hedgerows; not infrequently in doss-houses.. . Of one of these homes for down-and-outs he writes;

One floor is the same as another upstairs, the same passages perfectly scrubbed, the same lights that are never put out, the same partitions each side, the same little numbered cells, the same little beds with grey blankets and coarse brownish sheets, the same chair and window and single peg, the same small margin of space, tiie same chorus of groans and curses and snores all around, the same coughing and fetching and muttered prayers, the same reeking and rancid air, the same winding of watches, the same sound of swing-doors and the heavy tread of the last to arrive. . . . Whenever it rained and the place was filled with stinking and steaming men, many in the last stages of consumption and every kind of disease, of which starvation was the chief, and with no overcoats to withstand the wet nor boots to endure it, was so piercing and rank to the sense it would burn the inside -of your nose like the stench of some stables I slept in in Spain. Through it all runs a vein of introspection and at the conclusion of the book, which takes us as far as his brief return to New Zealand, Mr. Cresswell notes that “in every respect of body and mind I was a different person from what I had been.” And here are his impressions on sighting, again, the land of his birth: And what was strange to my eye was as nothing by all that was strange to my heart which remembered to have

beat wildly and ached and swelled for love of this place in a former life. But now when I arose at daybreak as the ferny was nearing- Lyttelton Heads and saw the summits of the Southern Alps above a long bank of mist, arrayed in that ancient light which the Titans took from Jove, I looked with awe and delight on that dazzling chain of rocks, but -my heart Inquired, What country is this? Here is a book that New Zealanders may-well take pride in; a courageous book and one that is destined to rank high when, in the years to come, an appraisement is made of the literature produced by the men of this country. “The Poet’s Progress.” By Walter D’Arcy Cresswell. Faber and Faber, publishers, London. The Negro Heaven In recent years many daring subjects have been treated by dramatists. We have had plays of love within “the table of consanguinity” such as “Desire Under the Elms,” plays of frustration such as “The Captive,” plays such as “Maya,” which was strangely beautiful even though its setting was the bordello. But no play has created greater interest in recent years than Marc Connelly’s “Green Pastures,” in which the Lord appears in the form of a coloured preacher. The play which has had a sensational success in America is conceived with something of majesty. Naturally enough, it is quaintly amusing, but the whole production, seen in perspective, contains, once one realises the author’s plan, no taint of irreverence. Mr. Connelly has presented us with Heaven, based strictly on Biblical teaching, as interpreted by the simple Southern negro whose intense religious fervour impels him to accept without the slightest degree of doubt every statement in the Good Book—allegorical or otherwise —as the profoundest truth. The play opens in a negro Sunday school in New Orleans where an old preacher is expounding the Book of Genesis to a mixed class of young negroes. On the cinema principle, the scene fades as the old man drones on and we are transported to heaven as it appears to the negro youngsters (or oldsters, for that matter) with God, Gabriel and the Archangels, equipped with wings and wearing the clothes that negro imagination would have them wear. On these lines we are presented with the story of the Creation, the story of the Flood and the drama of the Crucifixion. To some there may be concern at the thought of God—a gentle, rather bewildered old pastor, quite astonished at the miracles he can perform—complaining of the quality of the custard served to him at a “fish-fry” in heaven or accepting and offering “ten-cent seegars.” But they must read the play before forming their conclusions when they will find real beauty in this exposition of a simple, sincere faith. For it has to be remembered that God is not represented here substantially but is the image created by the negro mind which prefers to translate into the realm of immediate reality things which to most people are kept on an abstract plane. There will be few readers who fail to see the underlying beauty of this very striking play or to give credit to Mr. Connelly for one of the most interesting dramaturgical experiments of recent years.

“Green Pastures.” Victor Gollancz, Ltd.. Henrietta Street, Covent Garden, London. Our copy from the publishers direct. The Thunderbolt There is something to be said for a technical criminal who, in fiction, becomes an expert burglar when darkness falls in order to despoil financiers of their ill-gotten wealth and distribute the loot among their victims. And if and when the altruistic cracksman is an honestly rich, handsome man-about-town with a wealthy fiancee in the foreground, there is no sympathy to spare for policemen and profiteers. Add to that purpose and to these circumstances the fact that the brilliant bandit has more brains than all the grey matter in the heads of New York detectives put together, and you may be assured of thrills. So it is in the story of John Flatchley, alias The Thunderbolt, whose hooded mask in the dark resembled or symbolised a striking force from the heavens. The narrative can be recommended as a first-class thriller, rapid in action as a thunderbolt. “Alias the Thunderbolt,” by Johnston McCulley. Cassell and Company, Limited, London and Auckland. Om* copy from Champtaloup and Edmiscon, Limited, Auckland. For Girl Citizens The Girl Citizen Movement, which Is a younger branch of the Y.W.C.A., is a somewhat similar organisation to that of the Girl Guides in that it inspires in the minds of its young members lofty ideals, the spirit of comradeship and a healthy love of the out-of-doors. A useful handbook, “The Girl Citizen,” has been issued by the Y.W.C.A., of New Zealaud, and much of interest to members and prospective members is contained in its brightly illustrated pages. Nature notes, Maori music, translations of native bird songs and hiking and camping hints are only a fraction of the activities set forth. Included, too. are many well-chosen quotations from the modern poets and a catalogue of books to arouse in members a taste for good literature. Girl Citizens are expected to become conversant with the works of such authors as R. L. Stevenson. J. .M. Barrie, Rudyard Kipling, E. V Lucas and A. A. Milne, down to the

New Zealanders, Edith Howes. Johannes Anderson and Marna Ser vice. A practical movement for the girls of today—and the women of t--> morrow. “The Girl Citizen,” published by the National Board of the Young Women's Christian Association of New Zealand. “Come Into The Sun” In “Come Into the' Sun” Miss Doris Irene Thompson deals with adventures which came the way of Loveday Karnovski, a young woman who left poverty behind her when she claimed the guardianship of a grandfather With the guardianship, she prepared for a pleasantly uneventful life in an English county. She depended overmuch, however, on inheriting the even outlook on life of her mother, an Englishwoman of good family. She had a legacy of impulsiveness from her foreign father. It was this characteristic which perhaps caused many of the complexities of her later life which certainly would not form itself according to plan. There followed a quickening friendship with Sir John Landon, “a queer fellow, unsociable, who travels much in foreign parts.” The story then shifts to South Africa and the writer gives us here some graphic passages, culminating in the fulfilment of a romance.

--."p Olne , Into the Sun,” Published by Mills and Boon, Ltd., London. Our copy from the agents for New Zealand. Sands and McDougall, Ltd., London. French War Stories “The Cabaret Up the Line” is a collection of short stories—war stories by the talented Roland Dorgel&s, one of the new generation of French writers who is already favourably known to English readers. The Cabaret of the title was presided over by Big Bertha, who was by no means a pleasant or ingratiating hostess but who, it may be said, distributed her favours with a rare impartiality. This is trench life as seen by the poilu. and even for the difference in view point the book is particularly interesting to British readers. M. Dorgeles does not heap horror on horror’s head in the prevailing fashion. There are grim moments in his tales, naturally enough, but there are recaptured in them, also, some of the whimsicalities, in Galiic form, of the soldier’s life; phases, perhaps, that are too frequently lost sight of in the general clamour for the realism of the hell-with-the-lid-off school. “For the Duration,” a study in impatience, is interesting psychologically. “The Cabaret de la Belle Ferme” and “The Captain, the Cure and the Close-cropped Soldier” contain some rare drollities. “Here lies Cardinot” tells of a street gamin whose daring exploits as a private brought him fame and decorations, but whose promotion to commissioned rank brought, in its wake, stark tragedy. “The Goldfish” provides us with a tranquil moment and “Due for Leave” brings us back to the realities of war. Au excellent and representative collection of tales. Translated by Brian Lunn and Alan Duncan.

“The Cabaret Up the Line.” John Lane, the Bodley Head, Ltd., London Our copy from the publishers direct. Potted Psychology “If, for the sake of a psychological experiment, you approach a gentleman sitting in a tram and pull his beard tweak his nose, or call him a fool, you may notice that your experiment is followed by several interesting physiological and psychological changes,” points out Mr. Robert H. Thouless. “Quite so,” answers the reader, using words that are a fittircomment on many of the statements Mr. Thouless makes in the course of a book telling how and why the mind works, if at all. Unlike many popular “experts” on his subject, however, he is not always obvious, and his simple illustrations are worth skipping for the sake of the good stuff thev sometimes almost hide. On autosuggestion, habits, concentration, and inferiority complexes he is remarkably interesting, and much more illuminating than most people who strive as hard as he does to avoid technicalities. “The Control of the Mind.” Robert H Thouless, M.A., J'h.lX Hodder and Stoughton. Our copy from Mr. W. S. tative”' ,u^^s^ier,s Sydney represen-

PUBLICATIONS RECEIVED

Mingled larn,” by Wilhelmina btitch. Pictures in rhyme. Methuen and Co., Ltd. 64 pp.

Poets * Comer DEAD FLOWERS (Written for THE SUN) They are not gone forever; No, not so! Dying, they lend their life to other Flowers that How —■ The crocus to the rose, The rose to blooms That glow the winter through, And so the great flower-soul goes on unending ; From new to old, from old to new. CHRISTINE COMBER. Auckland.