Rebecca West,
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(1915)
“ Shaw believes too blindly in his own mental activity; he imagines that if he continues to secrete thought he must be getting on. Mr. Wells dreams into the extravagant ecstacies of the fantastic, and broods over old hated things or the future peace and wisdom of the world, while his story falls in ruins about his ears. Yet no effective criticism has come to help them. Although in the pages of Mr. Shaw enthusiasm glows like sunsets and the heart of man is seen flowering in a hundred generous and lovely passions, no one has ever insisted that he was a poet. ”
