human
L'Ile des Pingouins he returns, in a parable, to his epoch. For this book is the history of France
gpt
seen in the mirror of the writer's ironical temperament. It is very good. It is inimitable. It is sheer genius. One cannot reasonably find fault with its amazing finesse. But then one is so damnably _un_reasonable! One had expected--one does not know what one had expected--but anyhow something with a more soaring flight, something more passionate, something a little less gently
human
in its attitude towards the criminal frailties of mankind! When an A.B. Walkley yawns in print before the spectacle of the modern English theatre, it really doesn't matter. But when an Anatole France grows wearily indulgent before the spectacle of life, one is inclined to wake him by throwing
gpt
Leaves of Grass or
human
Ecce Homo