The Image Men By J. B. Priestley Atlantic/Little, Brown, $8.95 For two years I had an office in Bradford scarcely ten minutes away from Mr. J. B. Priestley’s home. The developer hasn’t got round to that part of Bradford yet; the solid stone buildings which I saw around me were the same buildings which were part of the landscape of Mr. Priestley’s youth. The novel I was working on then was giving me more than usual difficulty; I had at last to reveal something of myself and all my instincts argued against it. What kept me going, what enabled me to finish the novel, was the knowledge that a few hundred yards away another writer had begun his apprenticeship.
This is one of the reasons why I can never be entirely objective about Mr. Priestley. Even though I can’t pretend that I always agree with him or that I’ve enjoyed absolutely everything that he’s written, he’s part of my life, one of the family, so to speak. Over and above all this, he’s a magician; out of his hat for over fifty years now there have been produced other worlds, even glimpses of eternity. His great gift has always been a solid credibility; his rabbits may, so to speak, be cooked and eaten.
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