Weidenfeld and Nicolson, 460 pp., $22.50
I saw them coming, an army of two with banners. He was tall, pale, eyes narrowed from cigarette smoke of his own making (an eighty-a-day man for years); she was small, round faced, somewhat bloated. In the gracious plywood-paneled room, the hard stuff was flowing, and the flower of British book-chat and publishing was on hand to drink it all up in honor, not quite the noun, of my return, after a decade's absence, to Literature, with a long reflection on the origins of Christianity, novelly disguised as a novel. The year, 1964.
Review, 3823 words
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