dy.

I reviewed a book the other day. It is not often I do this, because
before one can review a book one has to, or is supposed to, read it,
which wastes a good deal of time. Even that isn't an end of the trouble.
The article which follows is not really one's own, for the wretched
fellow who wrote the book is always trying to push his way in with his
views on matrimony, or the Sussex downs, or whatever his ridiculous
subject is. He expects one to say, "Mr. Blank's treatment of Hilda's
relations with her husband is masterly," whereas what one wants to say
is, "Putting Mr. Blank's book on one side, we may consider the larger
question, whether--" and so consider it (alone) to the end of the column.

Well, I reviewed Mr. Blank's book, "Rotundity." As I expected, the first
draft had to be re-headed "A Corner of old London," and used elsewhere;
Mr. Blank didn't get into it at all. I kept promising myself a sentence:
"Take 'Rotundity,' for instance, the new novel by William Blank, which,
etc." but before I was ready for it the article was finished. In my
second draft, realizing the dangers of delay, I began at once, "This
remarkable novel," and continued so for a couple of sentences. But on
reading it through afterwards I saw at once that the first two sentences
were out of place in an article that obviously ought to be called "The
Last Swallow"; so I cut them out, sent "The Last Swallow: A Reverie" to
another Editor, and began again. The third time I was successful.

Of course in my review I said all the usual things. I said that Mr.
Blank's attitude to life was "subjective rather than objective" ... and
a little lower down that it was "objective rather than subjective." I
pointed out that in his treatment of the major theme he was a
neo-romanticist, but I suggested that, on the other hand, he had nothing
to learn from the Russians--or the Russians had nothing to learn from
him; I forget which. And finally I said (and this is the cause of the
whole trouble) that Antoine Vaurelle's world-famous classic--and I looked
it up in the encyclopedia--world-renowned classic, "Je Comprends Tout,"
had been not without its influence on Mr. Blank. It was a good review,
and the editor was pleased about it.

A few days later Mr. Blank wrote to say that, curiously enough, he had
never read "Je Comprends Tout." It didn't seem to me very curious,
because I had never read it either, but I thought it rather odd of him to
confess as much to a