ese things are." The majority of us are
deep in "vital" novels. Nor is the reason far to seek.

IV

One hears a great deal nowadays concerning "vital" books. Their
authors have been widely praised on very various grounds. Oddly
enough, however, the writers of these books have rarely been commended
for the really praiseworthy charity evinced therein toward that large
long-suffering class loosely describable as the average-novel-reader.

Yet, in connection with this fact, it is worthy of more than passing
note that no great while ago the _New York Times'_ carefully selected
committee, in picking out the hundred best books published during a
particular year, declared as to novels--"a 'best' book, in our opinion,
is one that raises an important question, or recurs to a vital theme
and pronounces upon it what in some sense is a last word." Now this
definition is not likely ever to receive more praise than it deserves.
Cavilers may, of course, complain that actually to write the last word
on any subject is a feat reserved for the Recording Angel's unique
performance on judgment Day. Even setting that objection aside, it is
undeniable that no work of fiction published of late in America
corresponds quite so accurately to the terms of this definition as do
the multiplication tables. Yet the multiplication tables are not
without their claims to applause as examples of straightforward
narrative. It is, also, at least permissible to consider that therein
the numeral five, say, where it figures as protagonist, unfolds under
the stress of its varying adventures as opulent a development of real
human nature as does, through similar ups-and-downs, the Reverend John
Hodder in _The Inside of the Cup_. It is equally allowable to find the
less simple evolution of the digit seven more sympathetic, upon the
whole, than those of Undine Spragg in _The Custom of the Country_.
But, even so, this definition of what may now, authoritatively, be
ranked as a "best novel" is an honest and noteworthy severance from
misleading literary associations such as have too long befogged our
notions about reading-matter. It points with emphasis toward the
altruistic obligations of tale-tellers to be "vital."

For we average-novel-readers--we average people, in a word--are now, as
always, rather pathetically hungry for "vital" themes, such themes as
appeal directly to our everyday observation and prejudices. Did the
decision rest with us