Paul Theroux's short stories [in World's Fair] avoid … problems of commitment by their comedy and brevity; when he expands in the longer form of 'The Greenest Island' (some 50pp) the attempt at seriousness and psychological interest becomes dogged and unconvincing. His natural gift for place is a means of capitalising on his passion for travel, and the short story with its emphasis on plot and its need for quick and shapely resolution is an ideal form for him. A restlessness of movement testifies to a disinclination to dig deep. A whole vein of comic writing exploits the relishedly superficial, reflecting the tactics rather than the neuroses of life, and Theroux sometimes has a ring of pure Lifemanship, for instance in 'Algebra', a story about an insignificant man making friends with the famous through a policy of reckless lying. He displays a hilarious callousness and a pleasure in showing up a particular world—diplomatic, literary, commercial—in all its fraudulence. Literary life is the most frequent target, for its vacuity and pretension; an American professor steals a poet's worksheets in a bid for fame, and there are other sardonic developments of the International Theme, the hazards and absurdities of British and Americans abroad. In 'White Lies' there is real horror, narrated by a bloodless entomologist, who draws a gloatingly distorted moral. It is immaculately manipulated.