AIRPLANES are apt to upset my stomach, but I certainly enjoy reading about them. An airplane plays a part in that volume which was imported from England under mysterious circumstances — Spy, by Bernard Newman (Appleton-Century, $£.50). The English editor published the book with the quiet statement that he clearly could not vouch for all the facts contained therein. This led certain English reviewers to regard it as a work of fact too open to question to be acknowledged, whereas it is, of Course, exactly what it purports to be, an ingenious, plausible, and highly exciting work of fiction. The leading figure is an actor: the son of an English father and an Alsatian mother, his perfect knowledge of both languages gives him access to each side of the lines; his knowledge of make-up and his Scarlet. Pimpernel daring do the rest. Having perfected his disguise, he works his way into Germany as an escaped officer. His skill and his knowledge of the British Intelligence bring him a post with the High Command, a post which he fills for three years. There in the makings is a novel capable of two hours’ light entertainment — the perfect book for a train.
And what airplanes do to my stomach William Faulkner does to the balance of my mind. A writer so powerful, one who is at times so addicted to the brutal, is almost sure to throw his readers out of kilter. Pylon (Smith & Haas, $2.50), his latest novel, is concerned with airplanes and the four members of a cheap flying circus, who are as hard, nerveless, and risky as their life requires. The story occupies the few days of an air meet held in a small Southern city: our attention is held by the reporter covering the show and by that air-minded ’family,’dropped from Mars, who take incredible risks, and whose metallic robot-existence is in such contrast to the indolent earthiness of the spectators. The assets of this novel are its tough good humor, its dialogue of indisputable realism, descriptive passages which at best have power and brilliance, and a current of feeling that at times runs strong and unsullied. I am conscious of a technical flaw: a tendency to tie words together in the Joycean style (‘gutterrims,’ ‘cheeseclothlettered ’) which is effective in Ulysses, but not here, where it is overdone. The sex episodes arc to me definitely aberrations — aberrations which, whether ludicrous or brutal, prevent our judging the novel as a product of maturity. With these cautions let the reader proceed.
If Lost Horizon was the most undeservedly neglected book of 1933, Winged Victory, by V. M. Yeates (Smith & Haas, $2.50), is the most undeservedly neglected of 1934. The validity of this novel, the perfect naturalness with which it re-creates the living and thinking of the Royal Flying Corps in particular, but war aviators in general, stamp it in my mind as a worthy addition to that superlative threesome, The Spanish Farm, All Quiet on the Western Front, and The Case of Sergeant Grischa. Here is the day-to-day narrative of a squadron of scout pilots in 1918. They flew Camels: six months in France on Camels was enough; after eight, one was certain to be sent home — if one survived. The day-to-day grind of any soldier was monotonous: what saves this book is its rare blend of reportorial brilliance and right psychology. You are made to feel what it was like to fly, and, believe me, the vividness of these pages will make a landlubber sweat. You feel what it is to dodge Archie, to sideslip away from machine guns, to dive or roll out of range of Fokkers; you feel the solitariness of cloud canyons and the spearlike fear of having to machine-gun troops on the floor; or, homeward bound, you try contour-chasing at a hundred miles an hour, skimming the trees, diving at brass hats in their expensive ears. And off duty, in the evenings or on rainy days, there is the latrine philosophizing, the ironic humor, the ranting and the drinking against that unceasing blare of the graphophone. There may be too much ranting, too little woman and song here for noncombatants.. But this is the way it was. Not the least of one’s regret is the fact that the author died virtually unrecognized. Well, his book will survive, and I trust he knew it.
Beginning May the first, and thereafter at six-month intervals, the Atlantic will prepare a List of Recommended Books. This will not be published in the magazine, but will he available for distribution to institutions and to individuals.
