During the past week men have slogged their way through malarial jungles, sweated in steaming asbestos factories, groaned beneath the burden of their own flesh and the age's injustice. I have spent the same period reading David Caute's novel, The Decline of the West …, and I am sure that my attendant anguish and pain have at the least equalled theirs.
Caute writes a peculiarly thick, heavy-breathing, rodomontade prose, and I am a slow reader. I have thus savored each of his inimitable prose ornaments, his thoughtful metaphors, with the care and intensity which I should imagine every writer would like to receive from every reviewer. I know Mr. Caute, in any case to the extent that he...
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