C. E. MONTAGUE " The Literary Novel " — up it goes again, that horrible headline, and after it the usual rigid gush — the creaky- praise of professionals bound to prove themselves capable of thoroughly enjoying such a feast of pure intellect — but unable to choke back altogether a healthy class-hatred for such things — and neatly turning the resentment to excellent official account by making it give the praise an effect of baffled benevolence, as who should say : brilliancy, but not the best kind ; blue blood, but we so much like it bluer. Whereas the truth is not only that it runs a coarse and common red, but that it makes a rough-and-tumble attitude almost necessary — that absolutely the only people able to enjoy The Mornings War ^ perfectly will be the lucky half-illiterates, the readers born letter-deaf — the bluff, inaudient audience that sees words as things, and simply wants facts, not effects. All the rest — the aesthetes and the epicures, the con- noisseurs and expert auditors, sons of the holy Pater and collectors of styles — it will simply reduce to a state of collapse. It will pull their nerves taut and then shred them diabolically. It will teach those superior tympana of theirs an extremely humiliating lesson. Think of a violin being played pizzicato persistently — your ear astrain all the time for the relaxing curve of the melody and the lulling slopes when the bow begins to glide. It is like that : the pizzicato goes on and goes
- The Morning's War. By C. E. Montague (Methuen).
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