O.P. Pym, the colossal Pym, that vast and rolling figure, who never knew what he was to write about until he dipped grandly, an author in such demand that on the foggy evening which starts our story his publishers have had his boots removed lest he slip thoughtlessly round the corner before his work is done, as was the great man's way—shall we begin with him, or with Tommy, who has just arrived in London, carrying his little box and leading a lady by the hand? It was Pym, as we are about to see, who in the beginning held Tommy up to the public gaze, Pym who first noticed his remarkable indifference to female society, Pym who gave him——But alack! does no one remember Pym for himself? Is the king of the Penny Number already no more than a button that once upon a time kept Tommy's person together? And we are at the night when they first met! Let us hasten into Marylebone before little Tommy arrives and Pym is swallowed like an oyster.
James Wylie is about to make a move on the dambrod, and in the
little Scotch room there is an awful silence befitting the
occasion. James with his hand poised—for if he touches a piece he
has to play it, Alick will see to that—raises…
Long ago, in the days when our caged blackbirds never saw a
king’s soldier without whistling impudently, “Come ower the water
to Charlie,” a minister of Thrums was to be married, but something
happened, and he remained…
The scene is a darkened room, which the curtain reveals so
stealthily that if there was a mouse on the stage it is there
still. Our object is to catch our two chief characters unawares;
they are Darkness and Light.
From drawing-room anti-Semitism to Auschwitz and beyond.
Had I written an essay such might have been my title. But I've
a novel, and the novelist embeds himself in history and life to
tell a tale. A tale, even if it's…