FOR a decade American editors and readers have been scanning English publications intent on being the first to discover those English writers who might in time take the places vacated by Galsworthy and Arnold Bennett, the places no longer occupied by the younger Wells and Masefield. To-day those seats are still open to the best bidder — and who may that be? Your guess is as good as mine.
Consider the claims of these post-war performers: A. J. Cronin for his Hatter’s Castle and The Citadel, Charles Morgan for Portrait in a Mirror and The Fountain, James Hilton for Lost Horizon and Good-bye, Mr. Chips, H. E. Bates for Spella Ho and his short stories. R. C. Hutchinson for Shining Scabbard, Geoffrey Household for The Third Hour, Howard Spring for My Son, My Son! How will the work of these younger authors compare with the well-developed claims of Hugh Walpole, Mazo de la Roche, Virginia Woolf, Henry Williamson, and Rebecca West? There is a choice which will be determined by readers quite as much as by the critics. Let’s have your vote.
And, while you are considering the question, let me ask you this: what kind of writing are we in for? Has realism reached the end of its tether? Are there signs — My Son, My Son! by Howard Spring might be one of them — to indicate a romantic revival? I shall carry out this analysis next month.
