ISSUE DATE: Sept. 11, 1933
THE BUZZ:
Many a writer appears on the literary horizon like a cloud no bigger than a man’s hand, swells quickly to mistily gigantic proportions and—vanishes like a mist. Gertrude Stein is no such writer. Like a huge squat mountain on a distant border of the literary kingdom, obscured not only by the cloudy procession of more Aprilly authors but by the self-induced fog that hangs around her close-cropped top, she has loomed from afar over the hinterland of letters, a sphinxlike, monolithic mass. Twenty years she has squatted there; eyes accustomed to the landscape are beginning to recognize something portentous in her massive outline. By the time-honored process of getting older Gertrude Stein, though she remains as mysterious as ever, has made herself a background place in the literary panorama.
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