The Books We Have Read

We, journalistic slaves, who have to wade thru hundreds of moderately interesting to infernally. dull journals every month. who have to have our "copy" ready at a more or less definite date, who have to keep fully au courant of the developments in our science, have not always the time or the opportunity to read all the books in the domain of belles lettres, history, biography, etc., that we would like to.. We often must delay such reading for "vacation" time. And then we let all medical journals and books go to hades and try to make up for lost time. We have read a large number of books during our trip-on the ocean voyage to Europe, in Europe and on the way back-but two we read with special pleasure and interest and to these we wish to devote a few lines. They are The Life of Benvenuto Cellini and Sanin (the latter in German translation).

THE LIFE OF BENVENUTO CELLINI.

We advise all our readers to procure this book, in Miss Macdonell's most excellent translation. It is a book to delight the appreciative reader. First of all, it is an excellent human document. Even assuming that there is a little braggadoccio in some of Cellini's statements, still the man stands revealed to us in all his greatness and in all his littleness. And it is always interesting to see a man revealed to us in all his nakedness. And second, from the reading of the book we get a better idea of Italy and France of the 16th century, than we can get by reading a dozen histories. From no formal history can we get such a light on the customs, morals, ideas of honor, beliefs, superstitions, state of medical knowledge, etc. etc., of medieval Europe, as we get from that unique, naive and unvarnished autobiography. And it gives us an excellent idea of the honesty and honor of the great of the land-the cardinals, popes, princes, kings, etc. And it isn't a pretty picture. It shows us that the alleged lovers and patrons of the arts were in reality small picayune souls, who were generally actuated by jealousy, by a desire to have prettier and grander things than their rivals. And they treated the real great men, the painters, sculptors, artists, only a little bit better than they did their lackeys. It is an interesting book to readif only for the purpose of seeing how much progress in every direction we have made during the last 350 years.

The world does move.

THAT BAD BOOK, SANIN.

I cannot refrain from saying a few words about this extraordinary book. I had heard considerable about Sanin before I left New York, and all I heard was of a derogatory nature: the book was obscene, the author was a rascal, etc., etc. When I came to Berlin I found it (i. e. the German translation) extensively advertised and displayed in every book-shop window,

big or little. Even the dry goods stores advertised "sales" of it. The fact that the book had been confiscated, its sale prohibited in Germany (and then again permitted), of course tended to increase the sale. I purchased a copy, and here on the steamer I read every line of it.

I will say this: if the book is a true picture of the present condition of Russia, then God have pity on that poor country! Everything becomes intelligible: the failure of the revolution, the deep despair, which is engulfing the nation and which drives its best sons and daughters-those who are not hanged, exiled or imprisoned-to suicide (or to sexual and alcoholic excesses), and the easy triumph of the brutal bureaucracy. God pity that poor long suffering country, for which, if Artzibasheff's book is a true mirror, we see no hope for decades, perhaps for a certury to come.

Now about the book itself. It is not a bad book; it is not an obscene book. It is a wonderful, perhaps an epoch-making book, and the author is not a rascal, but a great realistic genius. The book is depressing. Granted. But this is not the author's fault. Russian life is depressing and the book depicting it must necessarily be so. "There is not one lovable type depicted." First, this is not so. The women-bless them-the three heroines. Lydia, Ludmila and Zina are all very lovable, very sympathetic types, even tho two of them did break the sixth commandment. Of the men there is not one, except perhaps Sanin, to inspire love, respect or admiration. For Sanin you cannot help feeling a certain kind of respect, you cannot help admiring his remarkable, tho at times brutal, consistency, his absolute sincerity and love of truth. His idleness, his inaction fills us with despair or disgust, but what can a man like Sanin do in Russia at the presert time, when every avenue of intellectual activity is hermetically closed, when every attempt at useful action is punished as a crime? A pathetic figure in the book is the young jew Soloveitchik, who tortures himself because he cannot find the object of life and finally hangs himself, leaving the following letter: "What shall I live for, if I don't know how to live? Such people like I can bring humanity no happiness." . .

Yes, the types as a whole are anything but sympathetic, some are decidedly repulsive-but the author probably painted from life-such is the impression one derives from a careful reading of the book-and we cannot quarrel with him for being a faithful painter from nature.

The author loves to dwell too frequently and too long on the exquisite pleasures of the young nude female body. Arparently the hot blood still runs riot in the young author's veins. But there is true poetry-and not pornographic vulgarity-in his descriptions, and again we for one have no quarrel with him on that score. He somewhat over emphasizes the purely physical sexual basis of love-apparently sneering at the purely platonic

variety-but even in this respect he has a good number of psychologists to agree with him.

I should like to add that in judging the book as a whole, we should not forget the various discussions on religion, the object of life, etc., which, in spite of the author's cynicism and blaséness, are remarkable for their originality and real depth.

The author does not mince words, and some expressions are more brutally frank than any to be found in either Zola or Maupassant. Of course the book is not a proper one for Sunday Schools, nor it is a healthy book to put into the hands of sexual weaklings. But surely the author should not be blamed for that. When writing a book the author writes for healthy normal mature people, and not for weaklings or perverts. To the former the book can do no harm-only good. I have read it with both pleasure and profit-something I cannot say of many

books.

I should like to see a faithful English translation of Sanin in America. One passage would have to be omitted entirely, a few expressions would have to be slightly modified-for an unvarnished translation might prove too objectionable to our Anglo-Saxon prudery or to our friend Anthony Comtsock; but even if toned down, the book would still be a great book.

I will repeat, in order to emphasize my opinion: I consider Sanin a great book written by a great master. I consider it greater than anything written by Gorky or Andreyeff-tho the male types are non-sympathetic and, with the exception of Sanin and Soloveitchik, leave a bad taste in the mouth.

Bless the Books

God bless the books. What would people, who do not smoke, do not drink, do not play chess, checkers or cards, do not make friends readily, do not enjoy small meaningless talk, do not themselves possess the gift of gab, and have no superabundance of animal spirits, do, when finding themselves alone, without one friend, on a steamer or in a strange country, or on a desert island? I fear me, that without the dear comradeship of books many of them would go insane, or almost so. And books are certainly the most unpretentious of companions. You commune with them as long as you want, and when you get tired. you unceremoniously shut them up, and they do not feel a bit offended. And they are always at your service. And the information you can derive from them-provided you are reasonably careful in their choice- is as a rule much more exact and valuable than that which you can derive from friends.

God bless the books, and praised be their inventor.

Travelling Alone

There are people who are so great that they are all sufficient unto themselves. They need no company and, in fact,

often prefer solitude. There are other people who have the great gift of making acquaintances and even friends wherever they may find themselves. They pick up acquaintances the way one does pebbles on a beach. Such people may go to Europe or around the world alone. But he who does not belong to either of the above classes is very foolish indeed if he goes for a journey, particularly into a foreign country, without a companion. preferably of the opposite sex. All the new scenes, all the beauties of nature, all the remarkable sunsets, all the lack of care and worry, all the good meals in first class hotels, all the galleries and museums, all the palaces and monuments, all the libraries and pinacothecs will not compensate you for the deadly dulness which comes from the lack of intimate human companionship. You must have a congenial human being with whom you can exchange a word, with whom you can share your impressions, with whom you can walk arm in arm. And one word more: one companion is generally better than two or more. The truth of the adage, "two is company, three is a crowd," is never seen more clearly than when in travelling.

Plodding on in the Same Way

Ruskin says that we have two objects in life: "Whatever we have to get more; and wherever we are--to go somewhere else." I am sure I am quite innocent of the first accusation. To "get more" has never been among my sins. But I must unqualifiedly plead guilty to the second arraignment. Wherever I am, I want to go somewhere else. I cannot stay in one place any length of time without feeling fidgety. What is it, a sign of superiority or inferiority-or merely of neurasthenia? I have friends who can go on, have gone on for years, in the same place. plodding on in the same way, doing the same kind of work, without apparently feeling the necessity of any change. And they could afford a change-a trip to Europe for instance-if they wanted to. Are they devoid of imagination, or do they possess particularly strong, even nerves?

Which is it?

Supervision of the Social Evil

Those who are opposed to any supervision, official or medical. of the social evil, will derive comfort (?) from an article by Dr. Jacobi in the Muench. Woch. of June 8th, entitled "The Influence of the Abolition of Police and Medical Examination of Prostitutes upon the Spread of Syphilis in Freiburg." The official supervision was abolished in Freiburg, April 15, 1908 and this abolition was promptly followed by an enormous increase in the number of cases of syphilitic infection.

But what's the use? Facts and figures have no influence upon our prudes and none are so blind as those who will not see.

The Banquet Table

Some congenial physicians, tired of the deadening drudgery of a physician's life, decided to meet at more or less regular intervals, to dine together, to exchange impressions, in short, to have a jolly restful time. It was suggested that each of the members of this informal club prepare for each meeting a brief article-even of only a few lines for the amusement of his fellow members. The article should preferably be a mild satire, or a comment, on some of the evils of our profession, or on the foibles of our leaders. Some members objected on the score that they could not write. They were told that an interesting or amusing clipping would do. It was decided to print the members' contributions in the CRITIC & GUIDE, and we are glad that our readers will be able to participate once a month in this feast of wit and good humor.

The Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde in Great Men

Handel, in the course of a drunken spree lasting over a month, wrote "The Messiah." How explain such a seeming paradox? Swinburne wrote his most inspired verses when drunk. When his friend Watts-Dunton induced him to alter his method of gaining inspiration the poet ceased to produce anything revealing the fire and beauty of genius. When Longfellow met Tennyson, the pure and gentle New Englander was utterly shocked by the Englishman's obscene stories. Judging him by his verse, Longfellow expected to find the "linnet singing on the wrists of kings" a person of singularly pure mind. Tennyson had no idea that he was offending the American poet, and, when apprised of the fact later by a friend to whom Longfellow had expressed his disgust, made an apology, giving incidentally a most peculiar explanation of his brutal coarseness. This explanation is of interest to us in this connection. It seems that the beautiful imagery of his verses represented merely a kind of reaction against the coarse and obscene thoughts that usually occupied his mind. After composing the most delicate lines and spending great effort in the selection of charming phrases he found the inclination to lapse into the coarsest vernacular irresistible. It afforded him the greatest relief. This psychologic phase satisfied, he lapsed back into the other and out of ugliness beauty was born, perhaps the Lady of Shalott, perhaps In Memoriam. Every evil has its good.

Beverly Robinson's Editorial

"O judgment, thou art fled to brutish beasts, and (medical) men have lost their reason" is the burden of Beverly Robinson's editorial in the August New York State Journal of Medicine.

When the editorship of our State journal changed hands some time ago we expressed the hope that Dr. Warbasse's broad policies would not suffer in the change. We are glad to observe