The poem I admit does not sound very apposite in the year 1922, but it
well reflected my indignation some fifty years ago. The West might then
be regarded as the Ajax of the Nations. Nowadays, not even the youngest
of enthusiasts could think it necessary to show his devotion by wanting
to "go through the homeless world" with the richest and the most
powerful community on the face of the earth.
I am not going to make any show of false modesty by suggesting that
Americans may not care to read about the intimate details of my life and
opinions, or to follow "the adventure of living" of a journalist and a
public writer whose life, judged superficially, has been quite
uneventful. I read with pleasure the lives of American men and women
when they were not people of action, and I daresay people across the
Atlantic will pay me a similar compliment.
Yet--I should like to give a word or two of explanation as to the way in
which I have treated my subject. At first sight I expect that my book
will seem chaotic and bewildering, a mighty maze and quite without a
plan. As a matter of fact, however, the work was very carefully planned.
My sins of omission and of commission were deliberate and, as our
forefathers would have said, matters of art.
Pages:
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25