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 faith in one's art." Again and again he raises his voice against the inclination, on the part of some of these men he speaks for, to yield to the forces external to their own sincerest impulses.

Nor is Rogoff one-sided in his appreciation. Given over to an interest and a genuine enjoyment of the work of the realist, he is capable at the same time of generous acceptance and interpretation of the sincere production of such originals as L. Shapiro and Jonah Rosenfeld. In viewing such work, Rogoff stands by the individual promptings of the writer, with no preconceptions and no exactions other than that the artist create firmly and persuasively in his own image.

If it is a new world which the writer has created, one which the reader cannot verify by the test of "life as it is," and "in its own colors," Rogoff asks whether it takes shape and color, dimension and dynamic reality from the authentic vision which has fostered it. If so, he is for it. Thus he says of a story by Shapiro: "The story is not real, but it is a great achievement, nevertheless. For an artist has conceived it, nurtured it, loved it, named it with his own light, strengthened it with his blood. It has existence because an artist has created it."