I ultimately got away with my bag and
stick and hat, and walked to the nearest station, where a porter naturally
asked me for my ticket. I hired an auto and reached Paris only a quarter
of an hour late for dinner. And I congratulated myself on my calmness and
perfect presence of mind in a railway accident. Only "L'Eve Future" was
not in my bag. I had forgotten it, and my presence of mind had thus been
imperfect. I did not buy another copy of "L'Eve Future," and I don't think
I ever shall, now.
"FICTION" AND "LITERATURE"
[_31 Aug '11_]
Publishers' advertisements of imaginative work are so constantly curious
that one gets accustomed to their bizarre qualities and refrains from
comment. But Messrs. Hutchinson, who are evidently rather proud of having
secured Lucas Malet's new long novel, have thought of a new adjective, and
the event must be chronicled. They are announcing to the world that Lucas
Malet's new novel is "literary"--"the literary novel of the autumn." I
cannot be quite sure what this means, but it is probably intended to
signify that, in the opinion of Messrs. Hutchinson, Lucas Malet's novel is
very special--that is to say, it is not a mere novel. Less adroit
publishers than Messrs. Hutchinson might have described it as an "art
novel.
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