The institute of Arts and Sciences, Brooklyn, N. Y. recently found Sinclair Lewis, novelist, in a 'destructive mood." The world was just too exciting for words, that is almost so. First, take the British elections, a fiery affair that. Then there was that "delightful possibility" of war in the Far East. Just think of it. There may actually be a war, and then think what an exciting time everyone will have. Mr. Lewis is right. It is an exciting world. People may actually be starving to death. What fun it all is.

Then there this question of literature. There's "Vile Bodies" by Waugh, a book with the real smell of the earth in it. Or was it that Dam sun-like book about china? Amusing stuff, earth. Then there are post-war novels, thrilling they are, every hundred of them. Did Hemingway write "A Farewell to Arms" for nothing? Now there's a question. When America started there were people like Washington, Adams, and Jefferson around. Are they around now? Nope. Still, its pretty exciting.

Presumably Mr. Lewis was sardonic about it all. In that case, there seems nothing to do but go back to the village, hop on the realistic bandwagon, and bang, bang up and down the length and breadth of our glorious Main St., from which Mr. Lewis has so desperately and Nobely been engaged in extricating himself.