human
L'Ève Future was a really fine novel. I bought it, and I was so upset, in my narrow youthfulness, to find that the author had made a hero of Thomas Alva Edison, and called him by his name, that I could not accomplish more than two chapters. Later I was again informed that
gpt
L'Ève Future was a really fine novel, and I had another brief tussle with it, and was vanquished by its dullness. I received a third warning, and started yet again, and disliked the book rather less, and then I completely lost it in a removal. After months or years it mysteriously turned up, like a fox-terrier who has run off on an errand of his own. But I did not resume it. And then after another long interval the idea that I absolutely must read
human
L'Ève Future gathered force in my mind, and I decided that the next time I went away for a week-end I would take it with me. This was in France. I took it away with me. I read a hundred pages on the outward journey and I got on terms with
gpt
L'Ève Future. _
human
Ce livre m'attendait, _ as a certain French novelist said when he read
gpt
Tom Jones. On the return journey I was deep buried in
human
L'Ève Future, when a fearful jolting suddenly began to rock the saloon carriage in which I was. The jolting grew worse, very much worse. Women screamed. I saw my stick fly out of the rack above my head across the carriage. The door leading to the corridor jumped off its hinges. Then shattered glass fell in showers, and I saw an old lady beneath an arm-chair and a table. The shape of the carriage altered. And then, after an enormous crash, equilibrium was established amid the cries of human anguish. I had clung to the arms of my seat and was unhurt, but there were four wounded in the carriage. My eye-glasses were still sticking on my nose. Saying to myself that I must keep calm, I put them carefully away, and began to help to get people out of the wreck. It was not until I looked about for my belongings that I saw that the corner of a tender had poked itself into our carriage. Outside, a mail-van and two enormous coaches were lying very impressively on their sides, and two wounded girls were lying on the grass by the track, and people were shouting for doctors. I ultimately got away with my bag and stick and hat, and walked to the nearest station, where a porter naturally asked me for my ticket. I hired an auto and reached Paris only a quarter of an hour late for dinner. And I congratulated myself on my calmness and perfect presence of mind in a railway accident. Only
gpt
L'Ève Future was not in my bag. I had forgotten it, and my presence of mind had thus been imperfect. I did not buy another copy of
human
L'Ève Future,
gpt
FICTION AND
human
LITERATURE
gpt
--
human
I cannot be quite sure what this means, but it is probably intended to signify that, in the opinion of Messrs. Hutchinson, Lucas Malet's novel is very special--that is to say, it is not a mere novel. Less adroit publishers than Messrs. Hutchinson might have described it as an
gpt
(_Cf._
human
all up Tottenham Court Road.) Some of the most esteemed provincial dailies have a column headed
gpt
Literature on five days of the week, but on the sixth day that column is headed
human
New Fiction. You see the distinction. Messrs. Hutchinson are doubtless hinting to the provinces that the new book is something between
gpt
and
human
and combines the superior attributes of both. Once the _Athenæum_, apparently staggered by the discovery that Joseph Conrad existed, reviewed a novel of his under the rubric of
gpt
Literature, instead of with other novels under the rubric of
human
Fiction. Messrs. Hutchinson have possibly an eye also on the _Athenæum_. Personally, I would not permit my publishers to advertise a novel of mine as literary. But on the whole I wouldn't seriously object to the adjective
gpt
Art of the short story, the, 86
human
Artifex reviews the Letters of Queen Victoria, 12 Artists, creative, 13, 158, 228 and critics, 158 as critics, 158, 283 and money, 242, 250-254 Asquith, H.H., 302 _Athenæum_, the, 68, 71; its review of
gpt
A Set of Six,