Rhymes and Reactions (Mar 1926)
By George Sterling
The Cosmopolitan Book Corporation otters a prize (a trip to Hollywood) for the best review of Adela Rogers St. Johns' novel, "The Skyrocket."
The Cosmopolitan Book Corporation will receive many reviews of Adela Rogers St. Johns' book, "The Skyrocket," and not one sincere and truthful one. Here is one gratis, in two words: It's trash.
Not only is it trash, but it is superfluous trash, for the thing has already been done by a real intellect, not one of the Cosmopolitan variety—by Frances Marion in her excellent "Minnie Flynn."
Mrs. St. Johns makes, however, one good point, when ehe says that the poor termites of the motion picture world are scarcely to be blamed for their egomania. Take a mental (and usually social) nobody, heap him or her with riches and the unrestrained adoration of tens of millions of morons and submorons, and is it any wonder that the poor cretin takes himself or herself seriously, that he or she begins to talk of one's "art"? How are they to know that this "art" is a jest, given to the open or hidden jeers of all persons of intellect, even of those whose brain-children are sold to the deformers who own and direct the motion picture industry?
And "industry," not "art," is what it is, despite its paid apologists. Often such men, some of them fairly intelligent, speak out in its favor, being guilty of conscience. But let the golden stream cease flowing, and one would soon have the truth from them.
Mrs. St. Johns reveals her actual respect for motion pictures on many of her pages, constantly (and naively) applying the adjective "great" to actresses and directors. What a conception of greatness, this notoriety crowded on these miserable nit-wits by the mob to whom their posturing seems marvellous, their mindless faces beautiful! If the Gloria Swansons are great, what was Sara Bernhardt? What kind of greatness is this that has not the enduring qualities of whipped cream? No—the motion picture industry has produced but one individual whom we may respect and call an artist, whose pictures are worth seeing more than once—Charles Chaplin. But it is respectfully submitted that it takes more than one person to turn an industry into an art.
The Cosmopolitan Book Corporation's prize not only includes a trip to Hollywood, but a return trip. Imagine, if you can, anyone of the caliber requisite to winning the prize reaching Hollywood, and then returning!
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Last month there was a dinner in New York in honor of that amiable jingler and forbear of Eddie Guest, Fred Emerson Brooks, deceased. Our Sire of Song, Edwin Markham, was present, and was quoted in a newspaper account of the affair as saying that in his opinion Brooks' verses, "The Gravedigger," were better than the "Elegy in a Country graveyard." !!!!!
I wrote at once to Mr. Markham, asking for the true version of the thing, for it was flatly incredible that he could have made such a stupefying statement Here is his reply:
"Dear Client of Apollo:
No, I did not say that amazing untruth about "The Gravedigger" of Fred Emerson Brooks. I did not say that it is a greater poem than Gray's "Elegy," nor did I say anything having that import. I shall make a public denial of the misquotation soon, as soon as I can crawl from under the heap of obligations under which I am struggling. Meanwhile, I hope my friends will deny the statement.
I fancy that someone enchanted by F. E. B.'s personality got my words twisted, or else—
If we had such a poem, an elegy greater than Gray's "Elegy," the news of it ought to be blazoned on the front of the full moon, and be also given to the four winds of the world.
No, I didn't make that statement: this I affirm by the Seven Seas, by the Seven Stars, by the Seven Spirits that burn before the Throne. More than this—by the One Who Watches
Edwin Markham." I should be the last "to keep a flower from a dead man's grave," but in the interest of a living man the truth (and he) should not be so stultified.
* * *
My friend Ahashuerus Jones sends me a few further translations from the fables of the Venerable Bede. A learned man met by chance a Prohibitionist, and after entering into Conversation with him, happened to speak of the peculiar customs and beliefs of our Chinese Brethren.
"Strange," said he, "that they should imagine the Stomach to be the seat of the Soul."
"A trait," responded the Prohibitionist, "inherited from the Primeval Hog; the vermiform appendix has always filled the Bill for me."
* * *
The Market Street Railway is preparing for a Parthian retreat. The dying monster, dropsical with over-bonding and over-capitalization, and realizing that the people of San Francisco will never consent to its purchase at the fantastic price it sets, is taking revenge in advance by painting more and more of its cars a screaming and poisonous yellow. This adds to our city's attractiveness in about the same degree as would fifty-foot signs advertising "606," hung on the front of all prominent buildings. But as Nietzche mildly affirms, a small revenge is more human than no revenge at all!