The same writer of analytic reviews calls Eugene O’Neill’s “The Great God Brown” a “passionate attempt to expound the mystery of the artist’s maladjustment and of that perpetual tendency of his to slide into the mud while aspiring toward the stars. Its hero, ... unhappy himself, ... has been the cause of unhappiness in others, and when he dies he knows no more than that he has lived.... He has not seen the face of either God or Devil clearly enough to know which was which, and it is with curses that he has uttered the sincerest of his prayers.... The thirteen scenes ... are thirteen dancing stars still molten and fluid like the chaos from which they sprung. They are moments in the life of a man described in a brilliantly poetic sentence as one who ‘had looked into his own dark and was afraid’; and they are thus, it is difficult not to believe, fragmentary confessions from that dramatist who has peered more intently than any of his countrymen at the fantastic shadows cast by reality upon the walls of the dark cavern which is the self” (Same number of the _Nation_, pp. 164 f.). A less tempestuous form of disillusionment appears in the (would-be-bestowed) Pulitzer Prize novel, Sinclair Lewis’s “Arrowsmith.” The main action takes place upon the plane, not of brawling passions, but of the supposably rational life. Most persons of intelligence assume that, however mixed or fragile the values of other undertakings may be, scientific research is a truly noble and profoundly worthwhile type of human conduct. Very well, says the author of “Arrowsmith,” let us look at the thing in actual operation in our present world. Are you carried away by the researcher’s dispassionate objectivity and his passionate devotion to truth? In fact, this dispassionate passion is in a constantly losing fight with enemies both within and without the researcher.