When I question why I am a book critic I remind myself of the catfish and am justified. Mostly the book critic delves in obscure depths and subsists on trash. But occasionally he is rewarded.
The theme was imaginative and witty—the story of a race of lizards who were yet lizards and not men in the form of lizards, and of one bewildered male named Frut, who plumbed the fastnesses of freedom and authority—but between the unlit cave of the current critical mind and the hard rock of public indifference Mr. Faure’s book suffered the fate of Injun Joe.
Comments