Mano, D. Keith 1942–
An American novelist and critic, Mano is best known for Bishop's Progress, which, like most of his fiction, reflects his deep concern for the state of Christianity. (See also CLC, Vol. 2, and Contemporary Authors, Vols. 25-28, rev. ed.)
D. Keith Mano's novel, Bishop's Progress …, details the twelve-day wait of Whitney Belknap, famous Episcopalian bishop, for major heart surgery to be performed by Dr. Snow, an equally famous surgeon. The impersonal life of the hospital and Dr. Snow contrast with the bishop's concern for Love in his book, A God for Our Time, but the bishop, though trying to relate to others, is as impersonal and loveless as his scientific counterparts. The twelve days become tedious before they are over, and the bishop's leaving the hospital before the performance of surgery, though intended to be a noble gesture, seems foolhardy. (p. 365)
Prairie Schooner (© 1969 by University of Nebraska Press; reprinted by permission from Prairie Schooner), Winter, 1968–69.
Horn is set in the future, at a time when Black militancy is strong. Harlem is run by George Horn Smith, a Negro who has a freakish eleven-inch horn jutting from his forehead, and who, according to his autobiography, tackled incredible adversity before becoming middleweight champion of the world and, finally, a leader of the Black revolution in the United States. The narrative is provided by Calvin Beecher Pratt, a mild, fat, understandably frightened Episcopalian priest, who elects to take a parish in Harlem after reading of Horn's life. The stand-off between these two men—their crass dissimilarity—provides Mr. Mano's theme, which is to show that, despite everything, they are not so unalike.
There are some very clever things in Horn: the high rhetoric and gaucherie of Horn's autobiography (excerpts are slotted, rather leadenly, into Pratt's narrative) is well judged, occupying a position somewhere between the embarrassing and the frightening. Similarly, John Meeker, a priest also, and a Harlem veteran, is finely characterized as a liberal whose desire for identification with and acceptance by, the black population of Harlem has pushed him to almost psychotic extremes; and Pratt's fear of physical violence—and his ultimate subjection to it—is conveyed with a fitting intensity and tells us as much about the potential hatred of a tormented race for its persecutors as about Pratt's personal timidity.
The book's length, though, proves a major drawback. There is too much space for the tension to spread into, and become absorbed; too often, this is what happens. (p. 642)
The Times Literary Supplement (© Times Newspapers Ltd. (London) 1970; reproduced from The Times Literary Supplement by permission), June 11, 1970.