The Best Short Stories of 1919 | Page 2

OF THE LAND." By Anzia Yezierska 326 (From The
Century)
THE YEARBOOK OF THE AMERICAN SHORT STORY,
NOVEMBER, 1918, TO SEPTEMBER, 1919 351
Addresses of American Magazines Publishing Short Stories 353
The Biographical Roll of Honor of American Short Stories 355
The Roll of Honor of Foreign Short Stories in American Magazines
364
Volumes of Short Stories Published, November, 1918, to September,
1919: An Index 366
Articles on the Short Story, October, 1918, to September, 1919 372
Magazine Averages, November, 1918, to September, 1919 381

Index of Short Stories Published in American Magazines, November,
1918, to September, 1919 384

INTRODUCTION
I should like to take the text for my remarks this year on the American
Short Story from that notable volume of criticism, "Our America" by
Waldo Frank. For the past year, it has been a source of much
questioning to me to determine why American fiction, as well as the
other arts, fails so conspicuously in presenting a national soul, why it
fails to measure sincerely the heights and depths of our aspirations and
failures as a nation, and why it lacks the vital élan which is so
characteristic of other literatures. We know, of course, that we are
present at the birth of a new national consciousness in our people, but
why is it that this national consciousness seems so tangled in evasion of
reality and in deep inhibitions that stultify it? Mr. Frank suggests for
the first time the root of the cancer, and like a skilful surgeon points out
how it may be healed. His book is the first courageous diagnosis of our
weakness, and I think that the attentive and honest reader will not feel
that he is unduly harsh or spiritually alienated from us. Briefly put, he
finds that our failure lies in not distinguishing between idealism in
itself and idealization of ourselves. We regard a man who challenges
our self righteousness and self admiration as an enemy of the people.
What we call our idealism is rooted in materialism and the goal we set
ourselves virtuously is a goal of material comfort for ourselves, and,
that once attained, perhaps also for others.
"No American can hope to run a journal, win public office, successfully
advertise a soap or write a popular novel who does not insist upon the
idealistic basis of his country. A peculiar sort of ethical rapture has
earned the term American.... And the reason is probably at least in part
the fact that no land has ever sprung so nakedly as ours from a direct
and consciously material impulse...."
Mr. Frank goes on to point out that because our dreams are founded on
a material earth, they none the less have a hope of heaven, and that the

American story is really a debased form of wish fulfilment. "While the
American was active in the external world--mature and conscious
there--his starved inner life stunted his spiritual powers to infantile
dimensions.... What would satisfy him must be a picture of the contents
of real life, simplified and stunted to the dream-dimensions of the
infant. And with just this sort of thing, our army of commercialised
writers and dramatists and editors has kept him constantly supplied.
"There is nothing more horrible than a physically mature body moved
by a childish mind. And if the average American production repels the
sensitive American reader the reason is that he is witnessing just this
condition.... The American is aware of the individual and social
problems which inspire the current literatures of Europe. He is
conscious of the conflicts of family and sex, of the contrasts of poverty
and wealth. Of such stuff, also, are his books. Their body is mature: but
their mental and spiritual motivation remains infantile. At once, it is
reduced to an abortive simplification whereby the reality is maimed,
the reader's wish fulfilled as it could only be in fairyland. But the
fairyland is missing: the sweet moods of fairyland have withered in the
arid sophistications of American life.... And yet the authors of this sort
of book are hailed as realists, their work is acclaimed as social criticism
and American interpretation. And when at times a solitary voice
emerges with the truth, its message is attacked as morbid and a lie.
"It is easy to understand how optimism should become of the tissue of
American life. The pioneer must hope. Else, how can he press on? The
American editor or writer who fails to strike the optimistic note is set
upon with a ferocity which becomes clear if we bear in mind that hope
is the pioneer's preserving arm. I do not mean to discredit the validity
of hope and optimism. I can honestly lay claim to both. America was
builded on a dream of fair lands: a dream that has come