Griffiths lives in a kind of pathological _aura_ which dulls and poisons one by one his mental powers. There is enough of this to puzzle jury and judge. Remember, for instance, the episode when Clyde sits in the boat with Roberta. We had the impression that he had foreseen everything, and yet, when the time comes to act, his will power deserts him. The tragedy, none the less, develops itself automatically, as if he were out of it, were not concerned with it. The boat capsizes. Roberta’s head is hit by Griffiths’ camera. She falls into the water and he does not make a move to save her. He is arrested, tried and condemned. All this happens as automatically as the firing of a Winchester rifle. Again in the case of “An American Tragedy” as in that of his other novels, it would be unfair to take Theodore Dreiser for a cynic. There is a lesson between the lines if we know how to read it. What proportion is there between man’s deeds and his judgments? What is there in common between the dark and mysterious moves of our minds and the clumsy machinery devised to indict and to punish? Detectives, judges, lawyers, laws, jails and executioners. Does not the living mind of a criminal make light of all this, and if so, how can he be sentenced and electrocuted? I consider the scene at the end of the book between Clyde Griffiths, the murderer, and Reverend McMillan, his confessor, as one of the most dramatic in American literature. The priest has called upon the murderer and he wants him to make “a clean breast.” Much to his amazement he finds himself confronted with doubts. Here is this scene worthy of Dostoievski: The Reverend McMillan, hearing all this--and never in his life before having heard or having had passed to him so intricate and elusive and strange a problem--and because of Clyde’s faith in and regard for him, was enormously impressed. And now sitting before him quite still and pondering most deeply, sadly and even nervously--so serious and important was this request for an opinion--something which, as he knew, Clyde was counting on to give him earthly and spiritual peace. But, none-the-less, the Reverend McMillan was himself too puzzled to answer so quickly. “Up to the time you went in that boat with her, Clyde, you had not changed in your mood toward her--your intention to--to ...” The Reverend McMillan’s face was gray and drawn. His eyes were sad. He had been listening, as he now felt, to a sad and terrible story--an evil and cruel self-torturing and destroying story. This young boy--really...! His hot, restless heart which plainly for the lack of so many things which he, the Reverend McMillan, had never wanted for, had rebelled. And because of that rebellion had sinned mortally and was condemned to die. Indeed his reason was as intensely troubled as his heart was moved. “No, I had not.”