H.L. Mencken

Baltimore Evening Sun/February 12, 1921

One day last Summer, writing on this page, I ventured the view that the complaints against publishers heard from unsuccessful authors were chiefly without merit—that no author in America, with a printable manuscript under his arm, ever had any real difficulty in getting it published. To give force and effect to the sneer, I made a public offer to obtain a publisher for every decent manuscript sent to me in care of the Sunpaper, and to get a fair contract out of him for the author. I fixed September 1 as the limit in time of this offer.

A great many idiots and scoundrels, male and female, responded. The former sent in manuscripts so bad that it was almost impossible to imagine typists—most of whom have sharp wits, and many of whom are very charming—copying them; the latter neglected to enclose return postage, and so put me to a great deal of private expense, for which the treasurer of the Sunpaper, being an enemy of the fine arts, refused to reimburse me. How many manuscripts came in altogether I don’t know exactly—probably 300 or 400. In the whole lot there was just one of genuine merit. I sent it to my own publisher, Knopf, the day I finished reading it; he accepted it forthwith, and a week later the author had a contract for royalties, and the thing was being set up. This manuscript now emerges into the view of the nobility and gentry as a novel, “Zell,” by Henry G. Aikman.

Some time after these transactions, M. Aikman called on me at my office in New York, and set in progress a series of phenomena which had the ultimate effect of depositing a quart of excellent gin in front of me. A graceful attention, indeed. As I expected, he turned out to be no novice. Two years ago he printed another novel, “The Groper.” I had completely forgotten the fact, and when he reminded me of it I had a pianissimo chill. What had I written about this “Groper”? Had I, perhaps, slated it? Luckily, the files showed that I had praised it and predicted better work from the author in the future. This discovery, aided by the gin, filled me with very pleasant sentiments. They are renewed on re-reading “Zell.” It is a sound piece of work, carefully designed and competently executed. In more than one way it is a much better novel than either “Main Street” or “The Moon-Calf,” the best-sellers of the moment. In every way it is original, interesting and meritorious.

At bottom its theme is that of “The ‘Genius,’ ” which the Comstocks suppressed four years ago; but in all fairness I must warn the enemies of loose literature, lay and clerical, that they will find nothing in it to massage their lubricity. Nay, it is very sober stuff, though with touches of sardonic humor. What it depicts, in brief, is a battle to the death between an artist and a good citizen, all within the confines of one man, Avery Zell, an Americano of the lower middle class. Zell has a yearning to sing—and it wars infernally with a yearning to be respected. In Dreiser’s Eugene Witla the artist triumphs, and Witla goes to pot. But in Zell’s case the good citizen triumphs, and Zell ends as the secretary of a trust company. The ending is deliciously ironical. Zell, like all of us, tries to justify himself to himself. His dream has been blasted—but ointments are dispersed by the explosion. Who, after all, would want to be an opera singer, gargling and grimacing with stuffed pantaloons and painted face? How much better to be the secretary of a trust company, a prominent citizen, a 100 percent American—in brief—a Man!

Such ideas, of course, do not get into American novels very often. Irony is anathema to a right-thinking and God-fearing people. Nevertheless. it is not so rare that it is sufficient, in itself, to make a novel notable. What distinguishes “Zell” is the sharp vividness of its detail—the very great skill with which M. Aikman gets life into all his personages—in particular, his success in making Avery brilliantly real. He does not merely laugh at the fellow; he gets under his skin, and so sympathizes with him. Prometheus on the rock suffered no worse than this poor fish. One follows him through his dispiriting life, not with snickers, but with compassion. He is, within his limits, Everyman. He, too, shares the eternal Weltschmertz.

More, the thing is well written, with some regard to style. This quality is even rarer in American fiction than sense. Most of our novelists, even at their best, seldom get much beyond the manner of talented newspaper reporters. Their English is grammatical and easy to read, but it lacks all the delicate touches that every sensitive ear is acutely aware of and no tongue can define. I do not say that M. Aikman is a Cabell. Between Cabell and the next best, in fact, there is a gap almost interstellar, But he at least shows some feeling for words—he at least writes vastly better than the general.

Thus I recommend “Zell” to the great corps of refined and intelligent readers, as I recommend it to Knopf. It is a cut above the other novels of the day. In it there is a sound and interesting idea, and it is composed with deftness and good sense.