Word: brentano
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...DUNES-Harry Kemp-Brentano's ($2). To masculine Poet Harry Hibbard Kemp, neo-Whitmanian, who, bred in Kansas, has gone around the world on 25? and studied "tramping" for years, the sea and its gulls, its tidal slime, fog, dunes and shiny-footed waves, is a source of life in strong, recurrent phases. The first two dozen pieces of this volume evidently reflect a summer spent on Cape Cod with or near a loved woman, whose presence is more felt than seen. Besides these spans, which are briny and refreshing as a dory full of mackerel, are some painful...
...GREAT AMERICAN ASS-Anonymous-Brentano's ($3.50) Of all autobiographies, anonymous ones arouse the highest expecta tions. These, one feels, can afford to let themselves go. On this score none will be disappointed with "Roy Bradley's" freakish self-history. He is a man on the borderline of genius and insanity, not far (though far enough) removed from that type of creature that plagues editors and other public people with "nut" letters. He has passionate grievances, Tom o' Bedlam's honesty and a spilling store of acrid Americana to relate. Son of Puritans, he was raised...
BENJAMIN FRANKLIN: THE FIRST CIVILIZED AMERICAN-Phillips Russell- Brentano's ($5). French ladies figure...
...MANIFEST DESTINY-Arthur D. Howden Smith-Brentano's ($2.50). Here are history, fiction, and destiny jumbled on a scale which D. W. Griffith would call a "spectacle." One Peter Ormerod, fresh from Harvard, a successful Manhattan lawyer, goes to California in 1855 in behalf of his client, Commodore Cornelius Vanderbilt. Now Peter is often called "ugly" by his author, but he has steel in his biceps, adventure in his red corpuscles. In California where playboys dent the bars with their nuggets, he meets the "doctor- lawyer-journalist-soldier -states-man," William Walker, the original "manifest destiny" man, who believes...
...BOOK WITHOUT A NAME-Anonymous - Brentano's ($2.50). The lady of this 18th Century journal seems to have lived in a quiet way, in a Hall, by a forest, with her natural son, a few friends and a few gypsies for company. Some evenings she would draw close to her bedroom fire and reflect upon her unconventional estate, her mother love, the perfection of her absent lover, passing events in politics, art, literature, or upon life itself as she found it in her solitude. The texture of her mind was altogether extraordinary, far in advance of its time, indeed...