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gossip is interesting. Yet it is also disturbing-and not because the
literary world is too exalted or pure to bear analysis in the terms of
commerce. The trouble is rather in the tone with which Cowley treats
American literature as business, a tone of resignation so good-natured
as to melt into positive acceptance. This is partly the result of that
breakdown of values which sometimes goes under the name of being
worldlywise, partly of reliance on a genial, almost homespun manner
that doesn't come off. One finds it hard to believe in Cowley as a
simple fellow.
The other half of the book consists of a series of pieces dealing
with "trends" in contemporary American writing. These pieces may
have had some value when they first appeared in the magazines, but in
a hook they seem slight and poorly joined. Cowley is shrewd enough to
announce at the very beginning that his book "isn't a collection of
critical essays." True enough as this may be, it doesn't quite free him
from the critical obligation. For these "trend" articles, which brush
lightly over the New Criticism, war novels, the "new fiction" and re–
cent naturalistic novels must, and do, advance critical statements and
implications.
But if one asks what Cowley is getting at, what his purpose is
in publishing the book, one is perplexed. He takes a few pokes at a
curiously anonymous group whom he calls "the critics," as well as at
another imaginary group called, even more loosely, the writers of "new
fiction"; yet one cannot help feeling that something is being withheld,
some premise or emotion or attitude. No critic is likely to be this
cagy-and at times he can be as cagy as Calvin Coolidge-unless some
block, known or unknown to him, prevents him from making explicit
and developing with a certain rigor and fullness the underlying point
of view from which he examines the "literary situation."
Ever since Cowley ceased editing
The New R epublic
book section,
his work has lacked focus and betrayed a sense of drift. He has become
a highly accomplished literary journalist, the perfect man for giving
middlebrow readers the low-down on highbrows. He has also shown
himself capable, if only in his essay on Faulkner, of writing first-rate
criticism. In this essay his gift for locating the atmosphere, the unique
weather and landscape of a writer, shows to considerable advantage.
But his other essays have bogged down in popular biography, the one
on Hemingway in near idolatry, and those on Hawthorne and Whitman
in
barren speculations about narcissism and homosexuality. Meanwhile,
his
style has become smoother, cozier, softer; his writing seldom achieves
any sharp edge or strong feeling.
