LITERATURE.

Otago Witness, Issue 3330, 9 January 1918, Page 53

LITERATURE.

BOOK NOTICES. •"An Airman's Outings." By "Contact." Edinburgh and London: W. Blackwood and Sons. (Cloth; 5s net.) "Every day adds something to the achievements of aviation, brings to light yet another of its possibilities, or discloses more vividly its inexhaustible funds of adventure and romance." So says Majorgeneral W. S. Brancker (Deputy Directorgeneral of Military Aeronautics) in his introduction to "Contact's" vivid and inspiriting volume, in which the author depicts "the daily life of the flying ofhcer in France," giving a thousand graphic details with such moderation and absence of exaggeration that the reader will scarcely realise that the stpries are part of the annals of a squadron which fox a time held a record in the heaviness of its losses. Tlie importance of the aerial factor in the prosecution of the war grows apace. At the beginning the aeroplane was merely a toy; now, as the author demonstrates in one of his chapters, it has grown to be one of the most important arms of the service, on the skilful manipulation of which may hang the final victory. " War has been the making of aviation; let us hope that aviation' will be the destruction of war."

Imagine the conditions of a particular sector of the advanced lines of communication if it were bombed every day by scores of aeroplanes. Scarcely any movement would be possible until bad weather made the attacks non-continu-ous ; and few supply depots in the chosen area would afterwards remain serviceable. . . . Apart from extensive bombing, an air offensive of at least equal value may happen in the form of machine-gun attacks from above. Today nothing seems to panic the Boche more than a sudden swoop by a lowflying aeroplane generous of bullets. ." . . No German trench, no emplacement, no battery position, no line of ■ transport is safe from the Koyal Flying Corps. Vickers and Lewis guns and re- - taliation is difficult because of the speed And erratic movement of the attacking

'plane. Little imagination is necessary •to realise the damage, moral and material, which could be inflicted on any selected part of the front if it were constantly scoured by a few dozen of such guerrilla raiders. 'No movement could take place during the day, and no one could remain in the open for longer than

a few moments. Such statements may appear optimistic; but their excellent foundation is admirably supported by the " Outings," described with much detail and enthusiasm. Each one of these is a record of almost superhuman courage, endurance, and skill, with a flavour of true and thrilling romance of a kind never before told in the annals of war, far exceeding in interest the fictitious romances of all our sensational writers. Of course, the author does not attempt to speak exhaustively of every branch of the air service, for, like all big movements, it has now reached the specialisation stage, and what was easily grasped by one man in August, 1914, is now divided among many. "Contact" is an observer. His duties take him on long reconnaissances, offensive patrols around German air country, occasional escort for bombing craft, and occasional photography. The "bus" of which he speaks' in terms of warm, personal affection is a two-seater, and he is always accompanied by a pilot, whose duty it is to guide the machine. Of course, they are both always on the watch for enemies, and both take part in the_ frequent "scraps" of which we read in the records. "Contact" has an excellent literary style, which is always kept under restraint, but occasionally rises to the poetic level when he dwells upon the beauties of cloud-scapes and the exhilaration of high and rapid flights into the encircling blue at a pace often exceeding 100 miles ah hour. Sometimes he forecasts the value of aircraft in future times of peace, and enlarges on the safe and speedy transit from city to city and country to country, which will then be possible, exceeding the deeds of the flying carpet of fairy lore. Altogether this is an important and delightful book, one to fire the imagination and to warm the heart.

"The Black Prophet," By Guy Fitch Phelps. Printed in Australia for the Standard Publishing Co., Cincinnati, U.S.A. (Cloth; 45.) The object of this story is to expose alleged malpractices in America, There are long, controversial dissertations which seem entirely unsuited to the pages of a novel intended for general reading.

"Some Imagist Poets: An Anthology." London: Constable and Co. Boston and Now York: Houghton, Mifflin Co., "The New Poetry Series." (Paper; 3s 6d.)

This is a selection from the works of various young poets presented together as a school. This school has been freely discussed by those interested in new school movements in the arts. As this movement has already created some notice, it has been thought well to explain in a preface something of the aims and objects of its exponents as here set forth. They claim to be united under certain common principles, which, so far as we understand (and themselves confess so much), should be common to all literary aspirants, whether of prose or poetry. But the present writers declare that these principles have fallen Jnto desuetude, and consider it their task to revive them. These principles are six in number:

1. To use the language of common speech, and to employ always the exact word, not the nearly exact or the merely decorative word. 2. To create new rhythms, as the expression of new moods, not to copy old rhythms, which merely eoho old moods. We do not insist on "free verse" as

the only method of writing poetry. We fight for it as for a principle of liberty. Wo believe that the individuality of the poet may often be better expressed than in conventional form. In .poetry a newcadence means a new idea. 3. To allow absolute freedom in choico of subject. 4. To present an Image; hence the word " Imagist." We believe that poetry should render particulars exactly, land not deal in vague generalities, however magnificent and sonorous. For this Teason we oppose the cosmic poet, who seems to us to shirk the real difficulties of his art.

5. To produce poetry that is hard and clear, never blurred nor indefinite.

6. Most of us believe that concentration is of the very essence of poetry. It would be easy to show how, in the examples that follow, one or more of these self-imposed rules is continually infringed; and it appears to us that the work of " the good grey poet," Walt Whitman, more nearly conforms to them than does that of any of the present writers. But perhaps he is considered an example of the good habits that have "fallen into desuetude." There can be no doubt that these aims are worthy, though none of them seems to u>3 to touch the highest poetic aspiration. We quote two characteristic examples of the new style. The first is by F. S. Flint:

You love me. \ In your love were the tall tree fuchias, The blue of the hcrtensias, the scarlet nasturtiums, The trees on the hills, The roads we had covered, And. the sea that had borne your body Before the rocks- of Hartland. You loved me with these And with the kindness of people, Country folk, sailors, and fishermen, And the old lady who had lodged us and

supped us. You loved me with yourself That was these and more, Changed a 8 the earth is changed Into the bloom of flowers. The second example is called " The Poplar," and is by Kichard Aldington: Why do you always stand there shivering Between the white strea-rm and the road? The people pass through the dust On bicycles, in carts, in motor cars: The waggoners go by at dawn: The lovers walk on the green path at night. Stir from your roots, walk! poplar! You are more beautiful than they are. I know that the white wind loves you, I Is always kissing you and turning up The white lining of your green petticoat. The eky darts through you like blue ram, And the grey rain drips oil your flanks, And loves you. And I have seen the moon Slip his silver penny into your pocket As you straightened your h-air: And the white mist curling and hesitating Like a bashful lover about your knees. 1 know yon, poplar! I have watched you since' I was ten. But if you had a little real love, A little strength, You would leave your nonchalant, idle lovers And go walking down the white road Behind the waggoners. - There are beautiful beeches down the hill. Will you always stand there shivering?