Epileptic Romance

SWEET AND LOW. By Liggett Reynolds. (Simon and Schuster.)

THE chief difference between Mr. Reynolds’ book and some others that pass for “significant” literature just now is in the fact that Mr. Reynolds’ lunacy is deliberate and therefore entertaining. He writes like a veteran book-reviewer in the last stages of popularis litteritis. “Sweet and Low” is an epileptic romance fur-nished with every modern literary improvement and developed in thirteen and a half distinct and violent fits — first of hearty laughter, thank Heaven! If there is a sober sentence in the book, careful search has not located it. Daniel Webster, “than whom” no man has a greater reputation for seriousness, is reported to have read the book “five times, every time with greater indignation.” Here is a characteristic scene:

“It’s man to man now!” cried the tuba player.
“Who are you?” demanded De Foe.
“Do you want to know who I am? I am Dick Coleman.”
“The hell you say!” gasped De Foe. “So am I.”
In the fearful struggle that followed, Coleman merged with Coleman retaining the best features of each!

Readers who favor plenty of suggestive stars in their realism will find them here. Psychoanalytical enthusiasts will have a feast. And it would be a dull dog indeed from whom some hilarious page failed to fetch a howl of mirth.

The book is made long and narrow as a horse’s face, to admit of being slipped into the pocket without incurring tailor’s bills by ripping. This, it is pointed out, is a great saving to the customer.