narration, is by now trite, suggesting asnit does a waif crying out for est or holisticnego immolation. By the time the dotingnAriadne reaches for her VillagenVoice, she is more a caricature than annaspiring author who can’t find the timento write. As a woman who seems tonknow less about life as she grows older,nAriadne finally admits that even as angrandmother she is still “groping for anway out from my center to a continuity.”nThat kind of expression is more commonnto Marin County garden partiesnthan to an agonizing writer’s garret.nBut there is more than pathetic sadnessnto a character like Ariadne, whonleaps at faddish psychology with morenthan a touch of spiritual desperation.nThere is ugliness, too, shown in hernpoisoning her daughter’s Mongoloidnchild hours after its birth and in her rationalizationnof her act, years later, bynan allusion to weeding her garden. Jeremy,nher lifelong obstetrician-soulmate,ngently demurs—but then performs thenabortion of the child she conceives bynher lover Paul. Jeremy is pitched as anman of restrained, genteel wisdom, whonkeeps the reins of reason on Ariadne’snunruly, romantic nature. But his kindnof discipline is jellylike, mildly regretfulnof the evil in which she indulges, but indignant,nnot to say angry, at nothing.nSchneider leads us to a conclusionnthat reaches for the heights of feministnmelodrama. Can Ariadne, after thenmany hurts, traumas and injustices inflictednupon her—first by traditionalnsociety and its values, and second, bynher own emotional excesses that werenescapes from convention to which shenwas tragically driven—begin anew.’ Hernnext incarnation will be as author, settingndown, for the sake of her sanity andnthat of future generations of escapingnhousewives, the tricks she has learnednin a lifetime of moral confusion. Thenbook, we are told, will release her fromnher lifelong prologue. The flashbacksnflicker rapidly back and forth: she debatesncontemporary attitudes about sexnwith her grandchildren—how’s that forna grandma.’ Her target is exclusivelyn2^1nChronicles of Culturenthe plight of the married woman:ntrapped and oppressed by her womb, hernemotions, her needs:nTo the very end life seems to forcenupon women a morality of abnegation;na giving up of the personal,nwhether of sensuality, or ease, or creativenfulfillment. There are no sanctifiedncop-outs. A child’s cry of neednhas the power to recall a woman fromnher deepest sleep, her most vividndreams to her specific domestic responsibility.nIn taking responsibilitynfor my anarchist grandson, I was defendingnthe order of the generations.nI was acknowledging my link withnnature, as well as with civilization.nN ina Schneider is a doctor’s wife, ancollege graduate who has spent her lifenwriting poetry, producing films, and,nno doubt, keeping her finger on thenpulse of chic and chatty developments innthe women’s movement. Her biographicalnblurb proudly announces that “Atnlast count there were seven Schneiderngrandchildren,” and one is forced tonwonder, after reading Mrs. Schneider’snbook, if that is said with tongue innLips Sealed ornAlluringly Parted?nMalcolm Cowley: The Dream, of thenGolden Mountains, Rememberingnthe iP30’5; Viking Press; ‘Hew York.nby Otto J. Scottn1 he side flap of the dust jacket showsnan 82-year-old patriarch with snowy hairnand a benign expression, wearing thenusual mismatched tie and shirt of thenvery old. The jacket cover shows a largernpicture of the same man probably fortynyears ago, looking young, naive and pleas-nMr. Scott’s latest book is The SecretnSix: John Brown and the AbolitionistnMovement.nnncheek. Why would a woman who isnproud of her family write a novel aboutnwoman’s “morality of abnegation”.’ Perhapsnthe book is a triumph over the oldnsaw about art imitating life, but I don’tnthink so. Ariadne is not nearly as oppressednas she complains, and in realnlife, one would hardly think Mrs.nSchneider considers her life arduous.nOne suspects that the book is contrivedn— after all, tales of rebellious housewivesnare hot stuff these days, in certain circles.nThere is something unreal about Mrs.nSchneider’s book, even as she has triednmightily to say something profoundnabout Life and Woman. She is rightnwhen she says, simply, that a child’s crynwill awaken a mother, but she says it asnif men had nothing to do with providingnfor the needs of children—and wives.nResentment is fashionable in thenwomen’s movement; indeed, the movementnfeeds on resentment. If Mrs.nSchneider sat down to write her novelnlate in life, it’s most likely because shenspent too much time brooding over whatnto say in it. The theme of The WomannWho Lived in a Prologue has been donenbefore. It doesn’t improve with age. Dnant. Somewhere behind both picturesnhovers the real Malcolm Cowley—a presencenonce highly celebrated, Lord HighnPooh Bah of The New Republic whennthat publication and The Nation werentwin eminences, judas goats for an entirengeneration of American intellectualsnwho had been lured into the deadendnrunways of Comintern politics andncommunist exegeses of all events.nThe naive might anticipate an apologianof sorts, or a bristling defense ofnlong-exploded arguments. Cowley is farntoo talented and persuasive for that. Henhas not chosen to deny so much as to ignorenmuch of the past, and, with disarmingnskill and considerable grace ofn