John Day, 312 pp., $5.95
Ambitious in scope, this book seems to promise a major effort; rigid in preconception, it turns out to be as puerile as a Birchite pamphlet. And the wonder of it is that the author is not a backwoods Claghorn, a fundamentalist screamer, a demented candy manufacturer. He is an intellectual. He can quote St. Thomas, he knows what Pareto meant by a 'derivation,' and he has written ably on Kafka.
Review, 1543 words
To read the full text of this piece, please choose one of the following options:
|
If you are already a subscriber to the Review's electronic edition, please sign in: |
To subscribe to the electronic edition, please press the button below. |
To purchase access to this article for $3, please press the button below. |