BOOKS
235
emotion of rejection did not block his perceptions. But in
Chosen
Country
the bias of acceptance and love blinds the author very often
and dictates to too great a degree the selection and the nature of
his perceptions. Nevertheless, if anyone wants to know what the Great
American Novel will be like, a good guess might be a work of fiction
in which the author, possessing Dos Passos' genius for the assimilation
of experience, also possesses the peerless gift-for the novelist as well as
for any human being---of justice, that quality of justice which instructs
the heart in what beings and objects are worthy of hatred and what
beings justify and respond to love, forgiveness, compassion and mercy.
If
I write in a tone which is sententious and if my conjectures seem
fantastic, it is because I am thinking of the great Russian novel, which
is not a fantasy but an actuality. I am thinking of
War And Peace,
which is a masterpiece of justice, of just love, and of just hatred. It is
unfair to compare any novel to one of Tolstoy's masterpieces, except
when the novelist
is
motivated by the same intention and ambition as
Tolstoy's, and when the fulfillment does not seem impossible. Dos
Passos' intention and ambition are the same, and the fulfillment is
certainly possible.
As
for John O'Hara's new book, you know me, James, I always
find gossip fascinating and if the gossip is full of sex, naturally it is
irresistible to me. The gossip in
The Farmers' Hotel
2
is not as undis–
guised as it was in
A Rage To Live.
Still O'Hara is a wonderful gossip,
and he has the powers of observation which made Maupassant sensa–
tional in more ways than one. But his gifts are spoiled by glibness,
facility, haste, and an enchantment with the bitch-goddess, Success.
If
this seems an extreme statement, all you have to do is to see how
The
Farmers' Hotel
is
written as if it were the scenario or early version of
a play for Broadway. Never mind what Henry James would say about
O'Hara (if you want to know, all you have to do is to read his essay
on Maupassant), the fact is that a novel is not a play nor was it
meant to be, any more than a play
is
meant to be a novel. It is a fine
thing, sometimes, to dramatize a novel, as we can see in the French
films of
Crime and Punishment
and
The Idiot.
But to write a novel so
that it can become a play with ease is to waste most of the unique
powers of the novel. Why not just write a play and let it go at that?
Nevertheless, when this is said, it must also be said that I enjoyed
reading
The Farmers' Hotel,
just as I enjoy reading everything O'Hara
writes (except for his reviews stating his views as to the comparative
merits of Shakespeare and Hemingway, and
his
strange delusion that
2. Random House, $2.00.
