Tom the Censor.
There were days when Amory listened. These were when Tom, wreathed in smoke, indulged in the s*******r of American literature. Words failed him.
“Fifty thousand dollars a year,” he would cry. “My God! Look at them, look at them—Edna Ferber, Gouveneer Morris, Fanny Hurst, Mary Roberts Rinehart—not producing among ’em one story or novel that will last ten years. This man Cobb—I don’t think he’s either clever or amusing—and what’s more, I don’t think very many people do, except the editors. He’s just groggy with advertising. And—oh Harold Bell Wright oh Zane Grey——”
“They try.”
“No, they don’t even try. Some of them can write, but they won’t sit down and do one honest novel. Most of them can’t write, I’ll admit. I believe Rupert Hughes tries to give a real, comprehensive p
