Gustave Kahn took counsel of the past, and he has successfully avoided everything that even a hostile critic might be tempted to term an idea; for this I am grateful to him.  Nor is his volume a collection of miscellaneous verses bound together.  He has chosen a certain sequence of emotions; the circumstances out of which these emotions have sprung are given in a short prose note.  “Les Palais Nomades” is therefore a novel in essence; description and analysis are eliminated, and only the moments when life grows lyrical with suffering are recorded; recorded in many varying metres conforming only to the play of the emotion, for, unlike many who, having once discovered a tune, apply it promiscuously to every subject they treat, Kahn adapts his melody to the emotion he is giving expression to, with the same propriety and grace as Nature distributes perfume to her flowers.  For an example of magical transition of tone I turn to Intermede.

    “Chere apparence viens aux couchants illumines
      Veux-tu mieux des matins albes et calmes
    Les soirs et les matins ont des calmes rosatres
    Les eaux ont des manteaux de cristal irise
      Et des rythmes de calmes palmes
    Et l’air evoque de calmes musique de patres.

* * * * *

    Viens sous des tendelets aux fleuves souriants
      Aux lilas palis des nuits d’Orient
    Aux glauques etendues a falbalas d’argent
      A l’oasis des baisers urgents
    Seulement vit le voile aux seuls Orients.

* * * * *

    Quel que soit le spectacle et quelle que soit la rame
    Et quelle que soit la voix qui s’affame et brame,
    L’oublie du lointain des jours chatouille et serre,
    Le lotos de l’oubli s’est fane dans mes serres,

    Cependant tu m’aimais a jamais? 
      Adieu pour jamais.”

The repetitions of Edgar Poe seem hard and mechanical after this, so exquisite and evanescent is the rhythm, and the intonations come as sweetly and suddenly as a gust of perfume; it is as the vibration of a fairy orchestra, flute and violin disappearing in a silver mist; but the clouds break, and all the enchantment of a spring garden appears in a shaft of sudden sunlight.

    “L’ephemere idole, au frisson du printemps,
      Sentant des renouveaux eclore,
    Le guepa de satins si lointains et d’antan
      Rose exiles des flores!

    “Le jardin rima ses branches de lilas;
      Aux murs, les roses tremieres;
    La terre etala, pour feter les las,
      Des divans vert lumiere;

    “Des rires ailes peuplerent le jardin;
      Souriants des caresses breves,
    Des oiseaux joyeux, jaunes, incarnadins
      Vibrerent aux ciels de reve.”

But to the devil with literature, I am sick of it; who the deuce cares if Gustave Kahn writes well or badly.  Yesterday I met a chappie whose views of life coincide with mine.  “A ripping good dinner,” he says; “get a skinful of champagne inside you, go to bed when it is light, and get up when you are rested.”  This seems to me as concise as it is admirable; indeed there is little to add to it ... a note or two concerning women might come in, but I don’t know, “a skinful of champagne” implies everything.