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 Sherwood. Anderson's Tales of the New Life injured no one's sensibilities. It is in the grand style, I suppose. But Sherwood Anderson knows that stable boys, farmhands, and washerwomen, so far as they attempt to phrase a kindred urge, do not phrase it in that way. Their speech in this field is poor and meager. It is of the very essence of their misery that they cannot give it a name. They can only say, per haps: "Oh, I feel so queer—so queer!" or "Hell, but I'd like a drink!" or "I want a woman." And if they act upon these urges they are likely to act in a way which only a man who understands very primitive signs and symbols could interpret as a cry for "glory, more glory, on the earth."

And yet I am sorry for any one who doesn't get the "glory" in a bit of the vernacular, like this:

It does me!

Well, there is what I have found of chief interest in Sherwood Anderson, and the only way to determine whether all these qualities are really in him or whether I have imagined them, is to read his books.