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Star-dust in Hollywood
translation of the Hollywood booze-party into other terms. In fact, one witty American reviewer coupled together Aimee's book, In the Service of the Lord, with Isadora Duncan's My Life, and dexterously drew out their parallelisms.
The reasons for both revivalism and booze-parties lie in the comparatively resourceless nature of the modern mind, in its lack of interests beyond business and its lack of hobbies. The folk-spirit, that inner stimulus urging even the ordinary man toward creative impulses in his spare time, seems to be almost completely wanting. Few pursue any quiet personal task careless of reward ; there is little gardening, little music, except of a professional or sexually exhibitional nature, no home carving — fretwork or construction. In a Middle Western swindler's office thousands of letters from victims were found all complaining of the unrelieved monotony of their lives. And, as a cure or a change, whether the victim goes to the Lord or whether he goes to the devil seems a matter of pure chance and the influences among which he falls.
The modern revivalist, like the old, is supplying a longfelt want, but he is also modern in his methods. He has no more use for leather lungs, in spite of the Reverend Billy Sunday, ex-pugilist, who tears souls from their lethargy by every physical violence possible to a preacher. For Aimee, with her woman's voice, easily outbrays him, assisted by her voltage and amplifiers. Her voice blares from a cluster of trumpets, and she preaches not only to the comparatively small concentration of souls in her Temple, but to the vibrant ether. She converts not only the sinner but the microphone itself, and a hundred, two hundred miles away, in San Francisco, or on the arid plains of New Mexico, her disembodied voice is struggling with sin wherever the sinner has got his aerial tangled in the proper wave-length. The massed trumpets lent a clarion note to the sermon, caricaturing the preacher's voice, though not disguising its odd person
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