Whisper My Name, by Burke Davis; and In the Land of Jim Crow, by Ray Sprigle
Like a statue in a public park, the Jew in literature is a prey to the climate. Like a statue too, lie is frozen in one posture, defined by public taste. “When General Jackson posed for his statue, he knew how one feels.” Invariably, the Jew knows how one feels, and, invariably, this is the subject of the novel about the Jew. The climate now is sticky; the Jew has advanced from Shylock and Fagin to moral entrepreneur. Commerce, in Whisper My Name, is only the objective correlative of his creative impulse.
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