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AMORY, SON OF BEATRICE
SPIRES AND GARGOYLES
THE EGOTIST CONSIDERS
NARCISSUS OFF DUTY
THE DEBUTANTE
EXPERIMENTS IN CONVALESCENCE
YOUNG IRONY
THE SUPERCILIOUS SACRIFICE
THE EGOTIST BECOMES A PERSONAGE

me in the Japanese gardens at the Ritz or at Atlantic City or on the 

lower East Side. 

 

"Anyway," he continued, "I haven't the vital urge. I wanted to be a 

regular human being but the girl couldn't see it that way." 

 

"You'll find another." 

 

"God! Banish the thought. Why don't you tell me that 'if the girl had 

been worth having she'd have waited for you'? No, sir, the girl really 

worth having won't wait for anybody. If I thought there'd be another I'd 

lose my remaining faith in human nature. Maybe I'll play--but Rosalind 

was the only girl in the wide world that could have held me." 

 

"Well," yawned Tom, "I've played confidant a good hour by the clock. 

Still, I'm glad to see you're beginning to have violent views again on 

something." 

 

"I am," agreed Amory reluctantly. "Yet when I see a happy family it 

makes me sick at my stomach--" 

 

"Happy families try to make people feel that way," said Tom cynically. 

 

***** 

 

TOM THE CENSOR 

 

There were days when Amory listened. These were when Tom, wreathed in 

smoke, indulged in the slaughter of American literature. Words failed 

him. 

 

"Fifty thousand dollars a year," he would cry. "My God! Look at them, 

look at them--Edna Ferber, Gouverneur Morris, Fanny Hurst, Mary Roberts 

Rinehart--not producing among 'em one story or novel that will last ten 

years. This man Cobb--I don't tink he's either clever or amusing--and 

what's more, I don't think very many people do, except the editors. He's 

just groggy with advertising. And--oh Harold Bell Wright oh Zane Grey--" 

 

"They try." 

 

"No, they don't even try. Some of them _can_ write, but they won't sit 

down and do one honest novel. Most of them _can't_ write, I'll admit. 

I believe Rupert Hughes tries to give a real, comprehensive picture of 

American life, but his style and perspective are barbarous. Ernest Poole 

and Dorothy Canfield try but they're hindered by their absolute lack 

of any sense of humor; but at least they crowd their work instead of 

spreading it thin. Every author ought to write every book as if he were 


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