Atheneum, 249 pp., $10.00
Out of the closet and all over the best-seller lists, Bloomsbury writers are at last achieving notoriety—unsought, unexpected, but not undeserved. There is some pleasure in watching those prissy mandarins, whose stock-in-trade was the exposure of Victorian humbug, being stripped in turn of their fig leaves, and at the hands of their own children too. Recent biographies and memoirs reveal the group to have been a coven of high-minded swingers, most of whom—Roger Fry, Leonard Woolf, and Clive Bell are the most eminent exceptions—preferred their own sex.
Review, 3277 words
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