tedium of the reminiscences of a greatnman, which take on particular importancenfor the teller because they are hisnown.nIf this narrative were fictional insteadnof genuinely autobiographical, it wouldnsuffer from a failure on the part of thennarrator to set a proper distance betweennhimself and the angst-ridden youthnabout whom he writes. The reader isnnever quite sure whether Eliade approvesnof the young man or understands thenJustice in AmericanIt’.s well known ihai the criminal justicensy.’iicm in Amcriia is somcihing ol jnmi”>ni)mcr. judging how ilio.st- who ari;ncriminals often conn- off as ihough theynarc tlicviirims. Eixpccrarionofsuih rrciirmcnrnis .swmingly tommonplacc amongnthe felons, .^n lllinoiswoman was ramilynon rrial for killing her husband, thennchopping him inro conveniently disposablenI hunks, several of which are stillnmi-^-iing. Anording to a newspapernrepori. liie woman “seemed shocked byntheverdiir.” The verdict: guilty. Frankly,nif not shocked, we’re mildly surprised.n* * *nWe recently read a report that a convictednsex offender in New Jersey has hadnhis sentence reduced from 15 years innprison to three years probation and an$2,000 fine because the judge was worriednabout the deviate’s health. The mannweighs 500 pounds. Soda shops, deli’snand all manner of avoirdupois-inducingnestablishments in which anyone canneat one’s way to freedom can now alternour obsolete application of criminalnjusdce.nIn all the testimony regarding the effectnof prison on the criminal, no mentionnwas made of how his crime had affectednthe mind and life of the l4-ycaroldngirl he molested. Dn22inChronicles of Culturendegree to which his hero is obsessed withnthe splendor of his own image. Part ofnthe reason why this is true, of course, liesnin the fact that his subject is not Narcissus,nfor unlike that archetypal lover ofnself who exemplifies all the purity ofnfleshless myth, the youthful MirceanEliade is alive with every impurity hisnbiographer can piece together. Andntherein lies the tenuous glory of his narrative.nSuffice it to say that the youngnman he portrays eventually maturednenough to write brilliantly about thengreat religions of the world.nrL. B. White, like Eliade, is an eldernstatesman in the republic of letters.nWhite spent his youth as a member of anwell-known coterie, yet in this volume—nmade up of autobiographical sketches,nletters, poetry, and occasional essays—henseems hardly aware of the New York literarynscene. Instead he focuses on the activitiesnof family members, servants, andnzoo animals. Part of the difference betweennWhite’s wry sketches and Eliade’snpassionately intimate self-revelations cannbe attributed to a contrast in culturalnmilieus. Eliade came from EasternnEurope, specifically, a country surroundednby Magyars and Bulgars and touchednby the intense mysticism of the EasternnChurch. In such a land a man might wellnstand on a Transylvanian mountain topnand scream “The Cavalcade” from DienValkyrie while lightning zigzaggednaround his head. White, however, comesnfrom the eastern United States, where nonone would think of defying the heavensnin such a histrionic fashion unless he wasndrunk; and even if he did such a ridiculousnthing, he would not, fifty years later,nwrite about the occasion without a generousnportion of self-parody.nIndeed, the self-deprecatory tone ofnWhite’s own modest reminiscencesnserves as a most striking contrast tonEliade’s narrative. Eliade celebrates hisngrand passions, but White tends to denigratenthe importance of what he has livednthrough and felt. In replying to LouisenBogan, who once warned against thosen”small emotions with which poetrynnnshould not, and cannot, deal,” Whitenwrites, “From the evidence in this book itnis clear that if an emotion hit me, howeverntiny the littie fellow was, I leapt intonaction without sizing the situation up—nwithout cooling myself off to wait for anbigger fish. This can be damaging, if anpoet is headed for greatness.”nAll this is very Anglo-Saxon in tone,naltogether different from Eliade’s Latinnferocity. Yet White, too, has capturednthe sights, sounds, and feelings of hisntime and place. More than his fellownNew Yorker contributors Benchley andnThurber or Nobel laureates Hemingwaynand Faulkner, he has rendered in finendetail what it meant to be a middlenAmerican in the formative years of then20th century. Although he often placesnhimself at the center of the action innorder to give the reader the full authoritynof the eyewitness, he is never the subjectnof his own story, or at least never thenhero.nIn fact, his essay entitled “AboutnMyself is autobiographical in only thenmost superficial way, as he defines whonhe is in terms of the multitude ofnnumbers assigned to him, his family,nand his animals by various governmentnagencies. Similarly, his “Memoirs of anMaster” is not the recollection of one whonhas learned the secrets of Zen or acquirednthe highest skills of a craft, but rather annironic and sometimes affectionate chroniclenof the servants he and his wife havenhired and endured over the years. Thesenpieces are typical of the famous NewnYorker style which White, perhaps morenthan anyone else, helped to create: precisenprose wrapped in a tone of satiricndetachment capable of making fine estheticnand moral distinctions at its bestnand superficially snotty at its worst.nBut White is not always arch or causticnwhen he speaks with the New Yorker’sneditorial voice, as he often did in “ThenTalk of the Town.” Several of thensketches in this volume are lyric in theirnpraises of the city’s incongruous and surprisingnbeauty. With only a touch ofnirony he celebrates Manhattan’s pigeons,nending with a highly romantic tributen