old friend and a stepdaughter. The imagenof FeUx Leitner which emerges fromnthese sources is contradictory. Everyonenacknowledges his brilliance andnability; some admire his charm and humanenprinciples; but others find himncrafty, calculating, cold, inhumanly objective,nmonstrously egotistical. Roger,nthe would-be biographer, faces a dilemmanconcerning his subject: “The issuenhas to be, Did he care more for truthnor for the fame he derived in perceivingnit.” Did he love mankind or mankind asnpersonified in Felix Leitner.” . . . wasnhe a free soul, or was he simply ashamednof his background.” Was he the perfectndemocrat or . . . was he the perfectnsnob.'”nTrained in the prophet’s adherencento intellectual truth, Roger is unable tonresolve the dilemma, and, refusing tonproduce his own portrait, which wouldnfall short of objective truth (as, ofncourse, all biography does), he givesnup the project and simply makes his resourcenmaterials available to the public.nTurning instead to preparation for anbook on Felix’s writing, he feels a sensenof relief and order. The factions andncontradictions are gone; he is “alonenwith Felix at last.”nAuchincloss has stacked the deck,nof course. Through the informationncarefully provided, and deliberately dialectical,nit is impossible for Roger ornthe reader to determine conclusivelynFelix’s true nature. The point of thennovel is to bring into focus the essentialnproblem of biography: To what extentnis it possible to know the truth aboutnone particular complex human personalitynwhen the witnesses are all complexnhuman personalities filtering their impressionsnthrough the alembics of theirnown minds.’ Love, hate, envy, prejudicenall affect that process.nAuchincloss accentuates the biographicalndifficulty by his portrayal ofnRoger. If anyone could have knownnFelix, it was he. Being sexually impotent,nhe has in a measure been forced to livenlife vicariously, sharing Felix’s life. Henadmits, “I had no other life but his,” andnthat “Felix is more important to menthan I am to myself.” Felix informs him,n”I don’t suppose there really has evernbeen anyone who has understood menbut you.” Roger, while pleased with hisncloseness to Felix, is troubled momentarilynwith the thought that in adaptingnso thoroughly to Felix’s needs he hasnceased to exist. It is vital, therefore, fornhim to know the truth about Felix.nX hat he ultimately finds a manageable,ncoherent truth about Felix in thenwritings has interesting implications. IsnAuchincloss suggesting that a writer’snpersonal life and external personalitynare inevitably problematical of knowingnand that the true self—or at least a morenunified, knowable and important selfisnto be discovered in the writing.’ AnShakespeare motif running through thennovel confirms this notion. Conversationsnabout that poet center on his latenplays, in which, according to Felix, hengave himself up to words. Felix is explicitlynlikened to Shakespeare morenthan once, and Roger tells us “wordsnwere his life.” The parallel operates likenthis: just as the truth about Shakespeare’sncharacter and personality isnenigmatic and his work, after all, makesnthe enigma inconsequential, so withnFelix Leitner; Roger cannot solve thenriddle of his character, but the writingsnhave a coherent nature that overshadowsnand minimizes the urgency of that riddle.nThe Shakespeare motif also functionsnin the development of another of thennovel’s major themes: the question ofnvocation. Should the man of noble abilitiesnbe a doer or a thinker, a man ofnaction or an observer and commentator.’nFelix chooses the latter, making hisnmark by words rather than deeds, and isncriticized for being a “divine umpire”nwho can’t face responsibility—“the greatnonlooker who doesn’t want to get hisnfeet wet.” His first wife, with her leftistnand activist attitudes, encourages himntoward action and is greatly disappointednwhen he turns down a position on thenNational Labor Relations Board with annaccompanying promise of a future onnnnthe federal bench. But he does not wantnto implement anything or be on anyone’snteam. By linking Felix’s achievement innwords as being most important with thensimilar case of Shakespeare, Auchinclossnaffirms the value of the life ofnthe mind and the pre-eminence of thenwritten word.nThis affirmation is also reflected innthe very style of the novel. The writingnis direct and lucid. One could object tonthe uniformity of voice in sections allegedlynwritten by different people, butnsomehow that does not matter. The stylencommunicates so clearly and unself-consciouslynthat one ignores it to concentratenon what is said. There is plenty ofnintelligent talk about literature, artnand history in the novel as well as annabundance of ideas. The development ofnthe main theme is unified and economical.nThe book reflects an author whonvalues intellect, clarity, order and simplicity.nThis is novel number 22 fornAuchincloss, and it will certainly enhancenhis reputation rather than diminishnit.nA he style and method of ShirleynHazzard’s The Transit of Venus contrastnsharply with those of Auchincloss.nHazzard aims for subtlety, not wantingnto state things too flatly or completely.nOften she uses an elliptical techniquenfor conveying routine situations, simplynjoining together cliche phrases andnletting the reader fill in what is omitted:n”The officer beside the driver was pointingnout, ‘Here there was, apparentlynthere used to be, you wouldn’t credit itnnow.’ ” Sentence fragments are abundant.nDialogue is punctuated with subtlendescription of psychological nuance thatnis often interpolated in an annoyinglynfragmented way. It is a self-consciousnstyle, often cleverly precise in conveyingnfine shadings of attitude and emotion,nbut it is frequently inconsiderate of thenreader, who sometimes has the impressionnof looking through binoculars withnone lens out of focus or through a slitnin a fence fringed with shrubs; the viewnis not clear and complete. Though shen15nSeptember/October 1980n