byDavid Graham Phillips
1917
Even now I cannot realize that he is dead, and often in the citystreets—on Fifth Avenue in particular—I find myself glancingahead for a glimpse of the tall, boyish, familiarfigure—experience once again a flash of the old happy expectancy.
I have lived in many lands, and have known men. I never knew afiner man than Graham Phillips.
His were the clearest, bluest, most honest eyes I ever saw—eyesthat scorned untruth—eyes that penetrated all sham.
In repose his handsome features were a trifle stern—and themagic of his smile was the more wonderful—such a sunny,youthful, engaging smile.
His mere presence in a room was exhilarating. It seemed tofreshen the very air with a keen sweetness almost pungent.
He was tall, spare, leisurely, iron-strong; yet figure, featuresand bearing were delightfully boyish.
Men liked him, women liked him when he liked them.
He was the most honest man I ever knew, clean in mind, clean-cutin body, a little over-serious perhaps, except when amongintimates; a little prone to hoist the burdens of the world onhis young shoulders.
His was a knightly mind; a paladin character. But he couldunbend, and the memory of such hours with him—hours that cannever be again—hurts more keenly than the memory of calmer andmore sober moments.
We agreed in many matters, he and I; in many we differed. To meit was a greater honor to differ in opinion with such a man thanto find an entire synod of my own mind.
Because—and of course this is the opinion of one man and worthno more than that—I have always thought that Graham Phillipswas head and shoulders above us all in his profession.
He was to have been really great. He is—by his last book,
"Susan Lenox."
Not that, when he sometimes discussed the writing of it with me,I was in sympathy with it. I was not. We always were truthful toeach other.
But when a giant molds a lump of clay into tremendous masses,lesser men become confused by the huge contours, the vastdistances, the terrific spaces, the majestic scope of theensemble. So I. But he went on about his business.
I do not know what the public may think of "Susan Lenox." Iscarcely know what I think.
It is a terrible book—terrible and true and beautiful.
Under the depths there are unspeakable things that writhe. Hisplumb-line touches them and they squirm. He bends his head fromthe clouds to do it. Is it worth doing? I don't know.
But this I do know—that within the range of all fiction of alllands and of all times no character has so overwhelmed me as thecharacter of Susan Lenox.
She is as real as life and as unreal. She is Life. Hers was theconcentrated nobility of Heaven and Hell. And the divinity ofthe one and the tragedy of the other. For she had knownboth—this girl—the most pathetic, the most human, the mosthonest character ever drawn by an American writer.
In the presence of his last work, so overwhelming, sostupendous, we lesser men are left at a loss. Its magnitudedemands the perspective that time only can lend it. Its dignityand austerit