Arc. To return to literature, it is indubitable that Anatole
France is slightly acquiring the reputation of a dilettante.

* * * * *

In "L'Ile des Pingouins" he returns, in a parable, to his epoch. For this
book is the history of France "from the earliest time to the present
day," seen in the mirror of the writer's ironical temperament. It is very
good. It is inimitable. It is sheer genius. One cannot reasonably find
fault with its amazing finesse. But then one is so damnably
_un_reasonable! One had expected--one does not know what one had
expected--but anyhow something with a more soaring flight, something more
passionate, something a little less gently "tired" in its attitude towards
the criminal frailties of mankind! When an A.B. Walkley yawns in print
before the spectacle of the modern English theatre, it really doesn't
matter. But when an Anatole France grows wearily indulgent before the
spectacle of life, one is inclined to wake him by throwing "Leaves of
Grass" or "Ecce Homo" (Nietzsche's) at his head. For my part, I am ready
to hazard that what is wrong with Anatole France is just spiritual anaemia.
Yet only a little while, and he was as great a force for pushing forward
as H.G. Wells himself!

INTIMATIONS OF IMMORTALITY

[_3 Dec. '08_]

The judgments of men who have the right to judge are not as other
judgments. According to Mr. Yeats "the finest comedian of his kind on the
English-speaking stage" is not Mr. George Alexander, but Mr. William Fay!
And who, outside Dublin, has ever heard of Mr. J.M. Synge, author of "The
Playboy of the Western World?" For myself, I have heard of him, and that
is all. Mr. Yeats calls him "a unique man," and puts him above all other
Irish creative artists in prose. And very probably Mr. Yeats is correct.
For the difference between what informed people truly think about
reputations, and what is printed about reputations by mandarins in popular
papers, is apt to be startling. The other day I had a terrific pow-wow
with one of the most accomplished writers now living; it occurred in the
middle of a wood. We presently arrived at this point: He asked
impatiently: "Well, who _is_ there who can write tip-top poetry to-day?" I
tried to dig out my genuine opinions. Really, it is not so easy to put
one's finger on a high-class poet. I gave the names of Robert Bridges and
W.B. Yeats. He wouldn't admit Mr. Yeats's tip-topness. "What about T.W.H.
Cr