BABBITT is the reverse of “Main Street;” it packs into the personality of one ordinary citizen the banality, vulgarized energy, and ambition to be a hustler and a good fellow, of a whole class, while “Main Street” took what was alleged to be (but wasn’t) a typical town and diffused all over it the meanness and crassness at which the author chose to direct his arrows of irony.
Thus “Georgie” Babbitt is the book; the other people are merely what actors call “feeders” to Babbitt. This is why Mr. Lewis’s new story will puzzle and disappoint one large class of novel readers-those who demand situation, construction, suspense, culmination, and all the effect of drama. If, however, such readers will lay aside that perhaps Victorian attitude, they will find that Babbitt is in himself an epitome of one kind of American life; he bristles with actuality; he holds the stage of one’s attention ‘as closely as Lulu Bett did in Miss Gale’s story-to compare as opposite characters as there could be.
Babbitt’s literary portrait is a piece of meticulous exactness; the technical skill with which his creator avoids the temptation of making a mere type of him is a triumph. So, too, is the cleverness that endows Babbitt with a recurrent, only semi-conscious, longing for romance and idealism, in his breaking away from his campaigns of “pep” and hurrah to go fishing with his stupid and gloomy friend, or now and then to revolt for a time against the crooked business and politics which usually seem to him just what every “regular guy” does.
Fortunately for the reader, who might otherwise tire of the minute realism of the description of Babbitt’s daily acts from the time he throws away his safety-razor blades to his last drink at night, Georgie is a bubbling joy of slang, and his quick, bumptious talk is amusing; whether one laughs at him or with him doesn’t much matter. He is vain, uncultured (though a college graduate), a pusher and a boomer and a jollier. He echoes all the slogans, repeats the dubious stories, “orates” at club dinners, takes for granted that whatever is the business practice must be right, gets his politics and convictions at second hand, and is a successful church booster despite bad breaks in his personal morality. In short, he is an amusing scamp, but he is not a villain; he is not meant as a type, yet his vulgarisms and delinquencies are typical of a pretty large number of men who would be terribly outraged if they were to be told that they were not valuable citizens and go-ahead, progressive American business men. Irony is sometimes good for the soul, for it strikes deeper than moralizing. But the weakness of unrelieved irony is that it borders on cynicism; there are plenty of Babbitts about; but, thanks be, there are also plenty of non-Babbitts.
Eight years ago, in reviewing Mr. Lewis’s “Our Mr. Wrenn,” I spoke of it as a first story that aroused great expectation. The author has certainly gone far since then. The young shoe drummer there depicted was less real but more joyous than Georgie Babbitt; perhaps a little mixture of his gay efficiency and personal cleanness and honor might have made Babbitt something better than the man now so sardonically depicted with faultless realism.
Babbitt. by Sinclair Lewis. Harcourt, Brace & Co., New York. $2.
Source: The Outlook, 11 Oct 1922