[The] heroine of "Novel on Yellow Paper" muses to herself, by way of alleviating—or tabulating—the "orgy of boredom" to which her soul is committed: though the voice, the quirky, rambling, ingenuous, stubborn, funny-peculiar voice, could as easily be that of any other Stevie Smith heroine. In fact, Pompey Casmilus—christened Patience—is the narrator of both "Novel on Yellow Paper" and "Over the Frontier"; and the slightly more subdued Celia of "The Holiday" is clearly a close relation. And each chatty voice bears a close resemblance to that of Stevie Smith's own in her numerous essays, reviews and BBC talks.

Since her death in 1971 at the age of 69, Stevie Smith has been honored by considerable acclaim, both in her native England and elsewhere. Her "Collected Poems" has been reissued several times; a handsome gathering of her short stories, essays, drawings and reviews. "Me Again," was recently published in this country; and her three novels, long out of print, have [recently] been reissued…. Though differing in virtually every other way from the late Jean Rhys and the late Barbara Pym, Stevie Smith shares with them a posthumous fame that shows no signs of abating and is certainly well deserved…. An idiosyncratic talent, invariably deemed "eccentric," very much an acquired taste: a matter, it should be said, of tone, of rhythm, of voice, that appeals to some readers immediately and to others not at all. For Stevie Smith is all talk, all bright brash forthright confession, and no pretense is made of larger poetic or novelistic ambitions….

"Novel on Yellow Paper" is refreshing in its insouciance, perhaps, and in its refusal to attempt any traditional narrative technique; but the resolutely clever talking voice never varies through the 60,000 words, and the charge Stevie Smith made against James Thurber (that his tone and humor quickly became "monotonous") certainly applies to her. Initially, however, Pompey Casmilus surprises us with her directness, for it is quite as if we are given the privilege of overhearing private thoughts…. (p. 11)

"Novel on Yellow Paper" is a gallimaufry of opinions on such subjects as Medea, D. H. Lawrence, Racine, Goethe, Christianity and Nazism. It deals in its slapdash manner with "women's issues."… The chatter is occasionally sobered by thoughts of Pompey's mother's death and by thoughts of death in general. Like all improvised works, this literary curiosity strikes some inspired notes and others less inspired. Its value mainly lies in the fact that it was written by Stevie Smith at the age of 34 and that Stevie Smith went on to establish a distinct name for herself in poetry.

Yet if one looks for a self-portrait here—or in "Over the Frontier" and "The Holiday"—one is likely to be disappointed, for Stevie Smith rarely "sees" herself, and efforts at characterization are minimal. No doubt the narrator's claims for strong emotion are authentic, if we read Pompey as Stevie, but since they are not dramatized within the fictional context of the novel, they fall flat indeed. (pp. 11, 26)

"Over the Frontier,"… continues Pompey's observations, but shifts, surprisingly and I'm afraid not altogether plausibly, to an adventure-espionage tale (or dream) that carries her "over the frontier" into war…. Like "Novel on Yellow Paper," it is studded with small, quick, deft insights and perceptions; its thumbnail sketches of characters (like Colonel Peck, forever in search of his spectacles) will make it worthwhile reading for admirers of Stevie Smith but difficult going for others….

"The Holiday," written during wartime, was not published until 1949 and was Stevie Smith's own favorite among her novels, though a contemporary reader is likely to find it too whimsical, too disjointed, too low-keyed to hold his interest except in patches. It seems to have served its author as a kind of daybook in which she could record passing opinions and memories, awkwardly linked with an ongoing "narrative."…

Stevie Smith wrote novels with the left hand and made no claims otherwise. She is justly celebrated for her remarkable poetry, which magically combines the rhythms of light verse (upon occasion, even greeting card verse) with the unyielding starkness of a tragic vision. She has, as Robert Lowell noted, a "unique and cheerfully gruesome voice"; and this voice is most skillfully expressed by short, tightly knit forms where insouciant rhythms can be made to dramatically serve serious subjects. One has only to read a few of her characteristic poems—"Thoughts About the Person from Porlock," "Away Melancholy," the much anthologized "Not Waving but Drowning"—to fall under her eery spell. Here is a childlike sensibility informed by a cold, cold eye, an inimitable, because poetically constrained, voice. (p. 26)