A disappointing job. A Negro poet and liberal, instead of contributing what he could to better understanding of his race, retails his discussions with people of renown, holding to matters of no import. Frank Harris, Max Eastman, Isadora Duncan, G. B. Shaw, H. G. Wells, and so on. One feels he flaunts names in one's face, evidence of the fact that he, a Negro, knows thus and so -- and has ""arrived"". He drags in his work by flimsy threads of excuse. He succeeds in destroying sympathy for the Negro problem, and one is impassive and indifferent to the instances of racial discrimination be encounters. A self-centered, irritating book.