62
PARTISAN REVIEW
in every collection of modern American short stories. The same can
be
said for
l'vfasses of Men,
in which a destitute widow, whose three children
are starving, prostitutes her little ten-year-old girl to a stranger for twenty
five cents.
These, however, are the only two stories that approach major im–
portance in the entire collection. Of the others, four are definitely good
(Candy-Man Beechum, The Walnut Hunt, Daughter
and
Blue Boy)
and
four are (despite Caldwell's distintive treatment, in which an original twist
gives the story a character of its own) decidedly mediocre. The remaining
seven tales are written, and must be treated, on a different and lower plane.
They are evidence of Caldwell's most flippant and purposeless mood, despite
their momentary humor. They belong to the category which I characterized
as
"anecd~tr
writing" in a review of his first book,
American Earth,
four
years ago.
Strangely enough, Caldwell has improved even in this limited phase
of his work. His special talent for handling slight, almost meaningless
material deftly, bringing out the maximum effect with the appearance of
almost effortless ease, is unparalleled in modern American fiction . In this
connection, his work is greatly similar to that of David Garnett, notwith–
standing their differences of approach, of temperamet, of stylistic method.
But even in these slight humorous stories, which comprise the bulk of his
published work, Caldwell makes a contact with heality beyond the scope of
his localized, limited material. Whether he does so intentionally or un–
consciously, this is the saving virtue of nine-tenths
of
his writing. One has
only to read his
American Earth,
and
We Are the Lrving,
and the novels,
Tob.!lcco Road, God's Little A ere
and
Journeyman,
to verify this statement.
It
would be comparatively easy to dissect several of Caldwell's stories
-even the more successful ones-and to show where he fails in specific cases
to reveal character, to develop his situations, to probe more deeply into his
people's motives. But it would be difficult to take a single story of his and
explain its general failure to go beyond a certain point; to determine just
why his work very rarely achieves a major mood. The answer can, how–
ever, be stated in general terms.
Caldwell as a writer operates primahly on a sensory plane. He has
seen and he knows the life of the people about whom he writes. He under–
stands them and has a great tolerance toward, and compassion for them.
This is why is he able to record their lives, their tantrums, their petty
qualities and their occasional heroism faithfully and convincingly, so that
the reader sympathizes, laughs with or at them. But here his virtues as a
writer end, and the real reason for his larger failure begins. The lives of
his characters are too seldom transmitted to that higher region of the mind
where alone they can be resolved into completely meaningful personaliities.
They are almost never perceived in their entirety, merely felt as scattered
and fragmentary points of contact. James T. Farrell, for example, pos–
se5ses this higher sensitivity and perception, this ability to
understand
his
material on a rigorous intellectual level; and these things give Farrell's
work major possibilities. But Caldwell, handicapped by the lack of them,
has fail ed so far to progress beyond a pleasant, easy competence, and a
preoccupation with themes that seldom advance beyond trivial and frag–
mentary stages.
