ABSTRACT
Max Eastman recently wrote an essay on the modernistic school of writers-Joyce, Cummings, Stein, et al.-in which he contended that the purpose ofliterature, primarily, is to communicate. Ofcourse. And the chief indictment against the modernists is their utmost complete lack of communication. Under this indictment young Mr. Faulkner must fall. His novel tells us nothing. In one or two casesonly does his method justify itself by a certain dramatic vividness. On the whole, his novel, over which Evelyn Scott has waxed so enthusiastic, is downright tiresome. It is so much sound and fury-signifying nothing.
