The Daily Worker Newspaper, June 18, 1927, Page 10

HE ROSE FROM THE BOTTOM TO he able to honestly admit that one has not read Theodore Dreiser is no mean accomplishment. A man of lesser note might hesitate to make such an admission lest he be classed among the unintelli- gent minority. But when a person’s reputation is assured—be it what it may—he can afford to take a chance on the heehaws of the multitude. I have heard Dreiser branded as one of our foremost novel- ists and—Jehovah forgive me—I have boosted his stocks in many a perilous corner, because of the enemies he had made. But I never read a word of what he wrote until last week. And this is how the miracle happened: It was a rainy day and gloomy as the hero of this tale, wrapped around his breakfast’ of petrified country sausage and liquid, potatoes, washed down with two cups of coffee, stuck his battered velour out into the gusty rawness of Greenwich Avenue. Various signs of life in a big city were apparent on the thorofare: strong men wheeling barrows of bricks, mysterious Chinamen peering from the fast- nesses of their laundries at husky brewers deliver- ing needled beer to speakeasies, policemen tickling their sticks and wondering where the next head was coming from, poets coming home from their favorite subway and women leading babies to the nearest movie palace—a risky proceeding in the sterile village. With long easy strides our hero splashed him- self across the wreckage of Greenwich Avenue where Wall Street was boring from within the earth for more profits thru the medium of another subway. The slaves of the pick and shovel worked as heartily as if they were searching for the lost soul of an Egyptian soothsayer. Before our hero could analyse the new situation and draw the correct deductions from it, he was half way down the subway stairs. -There was no retreat now, so he plunged boldly in. He had a nickel, so dropping it into the greedy maw of the money-moloch he clicked and passed by. Several other customers were on the platform. Our hero, being a temperamental person could not enjoy himself standing for a train. He wanted to sit down and read. So he went and found a seat. While in this position his eyes rested on a second-hand copy of the Herald-Tribune. Here was luck indeed. He glanced rapidly over the political news and the sport sections, but the feature page held his attention. There in bold face was the name of Theodore Dreiser. It was a situation such as O. Henry would like to touch with his magic pen. It was the sixteenth and last of a series of inter- views with famous men, telling how they. jumped from pork sausage to a vegetarian dinner and what pin prick of fate jazzed them into the big idea. Dreiser told a story and since I read the yarn I am an incurable Dreiserite. Here was a man who was poor even like some of you and all of us, He was poor up until his 32nd year, was fired from the New York World for something like inefficiency— could not.get a good job from Chauncey Depew. He agreed to start a country newspaper. He actually invested $250 with a friends to start the paper. The friend had the idea but no dough. Dreiser happened to be in the middle of one of his suicidal moods when the friend popped the question and as people are always willing to consider an alternative to suicide he unloaded his wallet, went to the country and almost died when he saw the country editor they were purchasing out of business snoring in his. chair while countless flies wandered anaemically over his countenance. Dreiser could see himsélf as he now saw the editor five years from then, with the flies bigger, better goand busier perhaps, since he would be more palatable 5 fiy-food than his predecessor. Pi Dreiser pulled out of the town, leaving his $250 without even kissing it good bye and much to the joy and profit of his erstwhile partner who was never able to locate his stockholder in order to return his investment. It was after he fled this country town that Dreiser really began to see life. And all you imag- ~inative thinkers and creative writers who are weary - and sore of spirit take heart from, the life of one of your own kind. Theodore Dreiser, whose name is now on the lips of every well-informed person be- tween Christopher Street and the uptown frontier of civilization rose from a nine-dollar-a-week slave of the New York Central Railroad to the editorship of the Butterick publications inside of two years at the colossal salary of $17,000 a year. Luck did not spoil Dresier. He does not point a moral but he spins a tale. He has not started a corre- spondence course in success. He is an artist but likes a good meal and admits it. The United States ean afford to support a few more reese . J, OF. | | (Continued from page “4) 3rill would, in the midst of eating or reading sud- denly shut his eyelids and allow this constantly re- curring hallucination of success to pass thru his thoughts, which left him stupefied for the moment. Whenever the door bell rang he would run into the vestibule, in the hope that it was the postman holding the coveted envelope for him, His anxiety increased, and his inquiries at the newspaper office in turn became more frequent. At first Mrs. Brill was inclined to blame his be- havior on “overwork,” but as his actions developed into talking in his sleep, and incoherent mumbling during the day she became frightened. She sent her children to a relative and called in a nerve spe- cialist. During the examination Brill sat in an arm chair, seeming oblivious to the rapid questioning of the physician. His face was grimaced by an apparent stupor, and he couldn’t answer clearly. His wife went into the history of his strange metamorphosis. Ir- revelant muttering about pictures and names of presidents broke thru his masklike expression. He arose and paced up and down the room before re- gaining his seat. In the hallway the doctor told her that it was a case of dementia praecox, which he explained was a form of insanity in which a patient loses contact with reality and retires into a world of his own imaginings. “Can’t we do something for him, doctor?” Brill’s wife inquired. The elderly diagnostic was touched by the pathos in her voice. “These eases usually develop into an incurable mania.” he told her frankly. Then to lessen the hurt. “However, if we can in some way make him believe that he won this ill conceived contest, it may bring him out of this trance.” Mrs. Brill became panicky. After a restless night she hit upon an idea. which she hoped would save him. In the morning she left Morton in care of a neighbor and hurried off to the office of the tabloid. There she asked for a sheet of paper. One was given her. Mrs. Brill hesitated: rene emt ae me BOWERY Beaten, they stand in formless line; (FREE SUPPER & PRAYER TONIGHT) And being prodded by burly cops, They slowly file into God’s Mission House. Hungry, they sit on hard, wooden benches; And hearing themselves called God’s Children, They sing and pray antl shout Amen For a bowl of dirty soup. SAMUEL CAMIEL, “CONTEST EDITOR?” “Please, I would like to have one with your letter- head on.” Then feeling that an explanation was needed, continued, “You see, I am writing to a ‘friend out of town about your paper, and would like to do it on your stationary.” Color mounted to her cheeks, she felt that her lie was detected. The girl behind the counter gave her a -curious look, but nevertheless produced what was asked. She then hurried to a friend of hers who had a typewriter home, and between sobs, and a hurried explanation typed a letter. In the street she stepped into a drug store, pasted a stamp on the envelope, which she slipped into her purse; intending to drop it into some letterbox, and hurried home. In the morning Morton which read in part: Dear Mr. Brill, We are glad to inform you that you nre the winner of the ten thousand dollar prize offered by this newspaper for the correct solution of the “Know Your Own Presidents’ Contest.” Brill received a letter Yours truly, CONTEST EDITOR, Mrs. Brill watched her husband as his eyes scan- ned the letter, which he crumpled up, and with his clenched fists began a frenzied tapping against his ehest, at the same time crying, “I knew it! I knew it.” His mouth began to froth from the effort. Thra his distorted mind ideas flowed with increased rap- idity. He conceived peculiar objects which the as- sociation of fancies presented with a vivid likeness, The illusion which he had so long nourished had finally eaten into his consciousness, and he was as a result a different person. His shoulders seemed to bend forward, and his eyes delved deeper into their sockets. Strange emotions stole over his face as he paced around the house, continuing to murmur, “T knew it! I knew it!” and tap his chest. His wife followed him from room te room, as he began picking up objects, and placing them where they did not belong. She grew alarmed as this grim game of tag kept up for upward of half an hour. She then phoned for the doctor. During this inter- val Mrs. Brill, wasted from constant worry, kept a striet watch over him. Her eyes were harrassed by a frightened look. She kept cupping her fingers, and reproaching herself for bringing on this fit of her husband's, believing that her letter caused it, Tt was decided later in the day that they had best remove him to an institution as his abnormal rave ing did not subside. Mrs. Brill dressed to accompany him as an ambulance rolled up to the house. She opened her purse to extract some money. An in- stant later a shriek escaped her lips, as she collapsed in a faint. For there lying in her purse was that letter she wrote to her husband but forgot to mail. acme # me a EB IN eas - “gaye gianna Tek tte eRe RR NA, | eg st