The Human Touch

IN the Tuesday column I wrote about a young author, an acquaintance of mine and, incidentally, a Jewish lad, who had turned over to a publisher the manuscript of a book, after receiving, in monthly installments, an advance of a thousand dollars. The point of the story was that the publisher was not keen on the book and had offered the manuscript to the author, to submit to another publisher, in return for his misspent thousand. Otherwise this publisher would issue this work he was not keen about and hope to salvage the thousand, or part of it, by spending a few more hundreds on paper, printing, binding, merchandising, etc. This, apparently, is what the publisher had decided to do, for The New York Times published a paragraph to the effect that this work was to be brought out by its unwilling publisher (although The Times didn’t say, because it didn’t know, that this publisher was unwilling) some time in May. Now in the conversation in which the hapless, though remunerated, author had told me this sad story he had insisted that the unwanted book was the best thing he had ever done, a not unusual thing for an author to say about a book which is to come out or recently has been published.

I cannot say that curiosity about this book devoured me. I had read this author’s previous work and written a favorable piece about it and even praised it in conversation with friends who wanted to know a good book to read. But I can say that I was nibbled at by curiosity and I wrote to the publisher asking to be remembered when review copies of such and such a work were sent around. I was eager to see who was right and who was wrong. In reply I received a penny postal card, saying: “We regret to inform you that … by … is no longer on our publication list, as previously announced.” I telephoned the publisher to ask the name of the firm which was going to publish it, on the supposition that publication rights had been sold to a publisher who wanted the book and could repay the thousand dollars advance. No one could say who would publish the work. Perhaps no one will publish the work–at least not at present. In the good old days a publisher would issue a book that he thought was good, as well as one he thought was only salable. Today a publisher demands an answer to this question in reference to every manuscript: What is the market? Who will want this book? Where can it be sold? questions all of which are apart from so academic a question as the quality of a manuscript.

ABOUT A KISS-FIGHTER

TWO SHOPGIRLS employed in the same store were discussing a young male employee who has a penchant for pretty girls–well, for girls. This young blade–probably a drug store cowboy with the price of more than a frappe in his jeans–has the habit, it would appear, of taking out a different girl every night, and by the time this conversation was overheard he had taken out no less than half a dozen. Both of the girls overheard discussing this chap had been the objects of his attentions, and so they knew. “But Mary doesn’t like him very much,” said one of the girls. “I wonder why.” “Oh, Mary!” sneered the other. “She throws herself at a feller. He doesn’t like that. He likes to fight for his kisses.”

LOOK AT MY PICTURE!

ANOLD MAN, a painter, called the other day. He showed me clippings of that day’s newspapers with comments on the exhibition of the Society of Independent Artists, which was to open that evening at the Grand Central Palace. “Look!” he commanded, indicated the clippings. “Look at the pictures they write about, and they don’t say anything about my work. Please, when you go to the exhibition, look at my picture there, and if you like it you write something about it. It’s a big picture, you can’t miss it. It’s full of color.” In which so many morals, social, aesthetic and others, are hidden, that I refrain from starting on that tack.

A companion anecdote: As I was leaving the house this morning to go to the office, a young man, a handsome blond type, with a canvas under his arm, was being announced over the house telephone to one of the tenants. The flunkey was directing him to go outside and reach the apartment to which, he was being announced by the servant’s entrance. “But I am a painter, I am an artist,” expostulated the young man, not too loud, but one could see he was feeling humiliated. “Oh, all right,” said the flunkey, “Take the elevator to your left.”

GERMAN-TALKING JEWS

WHEN A JEW is a snob, he speaks German. That’s an axiom which varies under differing circumstances, but invariably the snobbish Jew who knows German will use that language in conversation with a Jew who can speak only Yiddish. Physicians who have Yiddish patients and who know Yiddish no less well than their patients are particularly likely to put up a language barriers That proves, I suppose, that they studied at Berlin or Vienna.

The other evening I attended a gathering at which were present a Gentile German who had been in this country for years and an American Jewess who knew English as well, almost, as I and who had sung opera in Germany. Five of us were present. Five knew English and only three knew German. But the American Jewess could not resist the opportunity of preening herself on her German, even though, by doing so, she cut off two of us from participation in the conversation. Someone turned turned the radio on and the voice of a woman singing in German came forth. “Ah, what execrable German! Turn her off, turn her off!” cried our operatic star as if the sound of that German gave her the pip. So we turned the dial lower. But she was happier when the program was over, and she could express herself in the language of dear old Heidelberg.

Which reminds me of an uncomfortable five minutes I once had in court. I was reporting the cases at a certain Municipal Court uptown, when the case of a Jewish peddlar was called. The accused knew only Yiddish. The court interpreter knew no Yiddish. A volunteer interpreter was called for. I volunteered, but my Yiddish was honestly rusty through long nonuse. But I labored mightily, translating the questions into Yiddish and the answers into English. But if my face was red, it was red because I became aware that I did not know enough Yiddish–I think I know a little more now–to do that job of interpreting honestly.