Going strictly by internal evidence one might suppose Freddy's Book to be the work of the offspring of an illicit but delightful union between Ingmar Bergman and Isak Dinesen; but it was written by John Gardner (who, characteristically, insists that it was written by Freddy).

[The Devil in Freddy's Book] is one of the largest and most convincing devils to be found in modern literature; he is very stupid and very subtle; and his eventual murder at the hands and bone knife of the knight is an event of great dramatic power and originality and of most devious and echoing implications. The tale left me mystified and satisfied to the highest degree. Who could ask for anything more? (p. 1)

So I arrive grumpily at [Vlemk, The Box-Painter] which is what I think one must call a minor work. It has charm and interest; it plays in narrative form with some of the ideas discoursed upon in Gardner's On Moral Fiction and with some other ideas all its own; but it does not seem to arrive anywhere. It remains in between. It sets off in a manner suited to adult or child, the straightforward narrative mode of the tale told aloud: "Once a man and wife lived in a vinegar jug by the sea," "There was once a king of the Sakya clan," "There once was a man who made pictures on boxes…." But the matter is intended for a highly sophisticated readership, and so the folktale manner soon sounds affected; nor is it consistently maintained. In the same way, the setting, the time/place where it happens, is neither here nor there.

In On Moral Fiction Gardner made it plain that "truth of place" is something he can cheerfully dispense with, going so far as to say that "truth is useful in realistic art but is much less necessary to the fabulous." Alas, I could not disagree more strongly. Effective works of fantasy are distinguished by their often relentless accuracy of detail, by their exactness of imagination, by the coherence and integrity of their imagined world—by, precisely, their paradoxical truthfulness. (pp. 1, 5)

So I found most grievous Gardner's coy or careless references to garbagemen and biologists in his stock generic-medieval setting. And why does the box-painter take 30 mortal pages to carry the talking picture to the princess? Because if he did it sooner, if, in other words, he behaved like a human being, it would subvert the allegory. But why make the story a bloody allegory? It's a lovely idea, the fierce little miniature portrait that talks back. If only Gardner had told it with faith in its reality, if only he had honored his fable with confidence in its truth! This need not have been a minor work. But everybody no matter how major is allowed their minor works; and anyhow we may all rejoice that we've got Freddy's Book, and its inexhaustible author, Gardner, Son of Grendel's Mother. (p. 5)