The Equinox (Volume I, Number X)

THE EQUINOX ‘exhibition of independent artists’ for ‘Salon des Independents, ‘ Bul- lier’s dancing saloon’ for ‘ Bal Bullier? ‘Lyons Bank’ for ‘Crédit Lyon- nais, ‘St. Germaine des Prés’ for ‘St. Germain des Prés, ‘ Dr. Popus’ for «Dr. Papus,’ ‘Rue de Madame’ for ‘Rue Madame, and so on. He puts the same place-name—first in translation, then in French, again and again; and as often as not gets both wrong! The constant chemical absurdities are perhaps Strindberg’s own and may have been made intentionally, as the book portrays the ravings of a melancholic with delusions of persecution. What sublime and septuple ass calls this Strindberg’s autobiography? Strindberg was too lazy to find his incidents in other people’s lives; that is all. And yet we find the translator note at the end: “Strindberg never actually entered the Roman Church” !!! The book is a perfect clinical picture of a typical case. Chapter I describes the irritability, the fantastic dreams. He imagines himself a great author, a great chemist. He has found carbon in sulphur; he will make gold. In Chapter II he begins to see omens in simple incidents, receives “ warnings ” from strangers, finds a plot against him at his hotel, notices remarkable resem- blances between his neighbours and some of his “ persecutors.” Chapter III develops the persecution-delusions. Roaring in the ears, electric shocks, and other physical symptoms develop. The bedstead has knobs like those of a Leyden jar, the spring mattress suggests induction coils, and so on— to the end! For refuge he ranges from Papus to Swedenborg, and ultimately, as his mental disease increases on him, he clutches at such straws as Péladan, Annie Besant, and the Church of Rome. In this dementia the book ends. But Strindberg did not end. He went his cheerful and polygamous way as a free-thinker, Persons who pretend otherwise are liars, probably hired liars—unless, of course, they are Englishmen, who are such natural-born fools in all matters of the soul that they not only require no bribe to lié, but can hardly be paid to see truth. Until Strindberg’s life is utterly dissociated from his art, the latter will not be truly valued. ACG WIND ALONG THE WasTE. By MAUDE ANNESLEY. William Rider & Son. I CONFESS to having expected a very flatulent novel. Judge of my surprise to find a novel of Paris as it is! The heroine (a rich Englishwoman) is robbed by apaches, and proceeds to paint their leader. She then seduces him, and joins the band. This is life. Most English and I suppose all American women go to Paris 228