It’s a pretty familiar idea that the Nazi-Soviet Pact of 1939 caused much disillusionment on the American left. Suddenly, Stalin was no longer leading the struggle against fascism. The Popular Front collapsed. Communist party members and fellow travelers had either to abandon their beliefs or to leave the organization that had given them hope. What never occurred to me until I read See What I Mean? was that right-wingers faced the same problem. They lost a hero when Hitler scrapped his longtime struggle against communism (and its purported Jewish masters) and made a deal with Stalin. I don’t have numbers on this of course, but I’m guessing many became confused and disheartened.
See What I Mean? By Lewis Browne. Random House (1943), 245 pp.
In the late 1930s PR guy Clem Smullet, having worn out his welcome in Hollywood, needs to find a job. His kindly landlady, Mrs. Gunderson, sets him up with John Christian Power, leader of a flegling anti-semitic movement called “the Crusade.” Power, tall, ascetic and deeply committed to his beliefs, has enough charisma to gather dues-paying followers. His grim security chief, Captain Cleaver, has less interest in Jews than in recruiting a private army. Power’s cynical events organizer, Doc Gribble, has no ideological concerns at all and cares only about making money. Broke and intrigued, Smullet becomes the Crusade’s publicity director and joins its inner circle. He’s nonetheless a bit leery about what he may be getting into.
Smullet tells this tale from his jail cell, so readers know right away that things are not going to turn out well for him. He’s not an entirely reliable narrator. On one hand he promises to tell the inside story of the Crusade with complete truthfulness. On the other he claims “incidentally” to demonstrate his innocence of all the charges leveled against him. In particular, Smullet seems to want his audience to believe that the movement in its early days differs little from other offbeat attempts in California to address pressing social problems. The narrator never changes his voice, which stays close to comic patter no matter what he’s talking about. So the book remains a fun read even when it’s making references to people and events of seventy years ago. Modern readers may hear an echo of politics in our own time, especially in the Crusade’s efforts to rouse anger and designate enemies.
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BUSCH ASLEEP
It’s not that often that one of the authors I’ve been reading makes the news. So I was surprised to see a photo of Niven Busch in this week’s Time magazine. Busch, you’ll recall, wrote They Dream of Home (1944), Day of the Conquerors (1946), The Actor (1955) and several other novels -- as well as more than a dozen screenplays. He died in 1991. So what’s he doing in Time? He’s sleeping and, so the accompanying story suggests, revitalizing his creative juices. The picture is from 1937, so maybe Busch was working on In Old Chicago when he dozed off.
LOVE, DEATH AND THE LADIES' DRILL TEAM
Love, Death, and the Ladies’ Drill Team by Jessamyn West. Harcourt, Brace (1955), 248 pp.
This book offers a compilation of fourteen short stories from the first half (specifically, 1939 to 1955) of West’s fifty-year career. Apparently all of them had been published earlier in various magazines. She revised a few for this book. The length of the stories varies from six to twenty-six pages. Just over half have California settings, though the exact locations are often unclear. The stories feature plain folks from ranches and small towns. The issues they face are sometimes momentous and sometimes of little consequence. In either case the author uses a flat style that reflects the calmness of her characters. Only in “Learn to Say Goodbye,” a tale of a teenager and the steer he’s been raising, does she ramp up the drama. Because only two of the stories have the same characters and setting, the book lacks the unity of West’s earlier collection, Cress Delahanty. Readers unfamiliar with her work might want to go there first.
THE BIG GUY
The Big Guy by Wade Miller. Fawcett Gold Medal (1953), 192 pp.
Freelance thug Joe Drum arrives in Los Angeles with loyal sidekick Archie Sheldon to carry out a strong-arm job for city councilman Hugo Bronson. After Joe’s target, a rich gambler named Nick Fontaine, dies of a heart attack, Joe concludes that the leaders of L. A.’s underworld have grown soft and vulnerable. With the right entrée he believes he can get some action for himself. When suitcases crammed with stolen money come into his possession, Joe thinks he has what he needs to make a decisive move. The story continues as readers are likely to expect, though without the sense of organized crime’s complexity that Richard Prather portrays in The Peddler (1952). Wade and Miller had previously published fifteen crime novels, so they’re long past having trouble with pacing and dialogue. Their final ten pages, however, especially the revelation on the last page, seem to undercut what ought to be the inevitability of the ending. The book should probably be considered optional reading for those enjoy hard-boiled novels.
OF MICE AND MEN
Usually I stay away from famous books. Of Mice and Men is almost the best example. It is available in 4,899 libraries world wide, has been published in 302 editions, and ranks second in the “California Canon.” A Google search for the book (along with its film and stage adaptations) yields 2.1 million returns. Innumerable summaries, analyses and study guides are available online. At goodreads members have posted 8,474 reviews -- fewer than those posted for any of the Harry Potter books but still a huge number. Does any more need to be said?
Of Mice and Men by John Steinbeck. Covici-Friede (1937), 186 pp.
Probably not. But I’m going to give some of my impressions anyway. I usually begin with a set-up section that covers the first 15 percent of the book. Ordinarily, that’s enough for me to mention the main characters and point out the direction of the plot. One might expect that in a short book like this the author would have hurried to establish his characters. But Steinbeck does just the opposite. In the early pages he introduces only two itinerant farm workers, big and slow-witted Lennie Small and his pal and unofficial guardian, George Milton. Steinbeck apparently wants readers to focus on the relationship between the two men and not become distracted later when more characters, all residents on the ranch south of Soledad where Lennie and George go to work, make an appearance. Distraction is a definite possibility because the new arrivals are rendered in telling detail and with sympathetic understanding.
The book represents a conjunction of two of Steinbeck’s favorite themes. First, working the land in California presents many difficulties. And second, men can live contentedly without female companionship. (Perhaps “only” needs to be put between “can” and “live.”) All of his California novels except The Wayward Bus explore these themes in one way or another. Which could pose a problem for readers unconcerned with ranching in the Salinas Valley or turned off by the author’s misogynistic streak. They might be tempted to lump this book with other literary masterpieces that no one reads voluntarily. That would be a mistake. The book is so short -- it can (and should) be read in one sitting -- and packs so much emotional punch that serious readers are bound to find it rewarding.