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Doctor Collins approaches the art of criticism triply armed: he has the gift of literary appreciation, he has sophistication, and he has no mean knowledge of psychology. With all these attributes it is small wonder that in certain quarters he is regarded as something of an oracle. There have appeared in rapid succession a group of books from his pen
whose titles flavor somewhat of pretention: “The Doctor Looks at Literature,” “The Doctor Looks at Love and Life,” and the present tome, “The Doctor Looks at Marriage and Medicine.”
The gifts of the good doctor, let it be reiterated, are many. His intelligence is far above the average. His natural aptitude for dialectic has stood him in good stead in many a courtroom battle. He is thoroughly conversant with psychiatry. And he has a real flair for literature. His taste, in fact, is good, and his literary judgments, in the main, coincide with those of the judicious, everywhere.
Having set all these qualities down in black, however, we regretfully dip our pen in the red ink. Unfortunately, for many years, Doctor Collins has been hag-ridden by an obsession. He has fancied that he could write. He has vainly imagined that his views on life, literature, and other topics (if there be others) were entertaining and instructive. And so he has poured forth article after article, book after book.
How often has the prize-ring witnessed the spectacle of an individual richly endowed by nature with weight, muscle and agility, flounder about in painful exhibitions? Lacking the spark which distinguishes a fighter from a dub, all his efforts are useless. Lacking the divine afflatus, what reams of paper, what acres of canvas, are sacrificed yearly. The mills of the publishers grind steadily and some of the stuff they grind is exceedingly small.
Lind