ularist approach more readily than doesnpoetry and drama, both of which henseems to have missed almost altogether.nH is second career is more difl&cultnto assess. Some feel that Patriotic Gorenis his greatest work, but only time willntell if his methodology is of any value. Tonthe Finland Station was dated before itnwas published. The Scrolls fmm the DeadnSea no longer has the stature it was prematurelyngiven upon publication. ThenCold War and the Income Tax is at bestna curiosity. And what now can be saidnfor Europe Without Baedeker and OnCanada? It would be ironic if the passingnof time were less kind to Wilson than tonVan Wyck Brooks. Brooks, with less nativenability, had at least a grand plannaround which his books were organized.nWilson simply followed his nose; he wasndominated by passing, personal whims.nThings acquired significance by Wilsoniannfiat Personal hobbyhorses litter the landscapenof his career fi-om the 1950’s on.nOf course, it is precisely for what 1 see asna fault that he was judged to be a greatnsuccess. Since he was himself the gaugenof the significance of things, there wasnno need for objective confirmation ofnthe importance of what interested him.nFor example, that he didn’t pay his incomentax became a national event becausenhe willed it so. He measured thenreal by himself rather than the other waynaround.nIn the 20’s and 30’s Wilson’s professionalnliberalism was typical of that whichndominated culture in the United States.nThe posthumously collected and titlednLetters on Literature and Politics notwithstanding,nI have the impression thatnhe was a dilettante when it came to politics.nHow much importance is one tongive his comment urging writers to “takenCommunism away fi-om the communistsnand apply it to American conditions”?nWilson treated World War II as litde morenthan an intrusion into his private space.nHis visit to Europe in the 40’s generatednno political wisdom of lasting value. “Inhave derived a good deal more benefitn… fi-om the American bathroom than…nthe cathedrals of Europe.” A personalnpolitical cynicism made him discountnthe left in the 50’s and thereafter: “Marxismnis the opium of the intellecmals.” Thenformer Sovietophile learned to hate thenbigness and bureaucracy of a central governmentnbecause it demanded that henpay an income tax. It was personal piquengenerated by this experience that causednhim to write to Dos Passos, “The Americansnat the present time [ 1963 ] are beingntyraimized over by the federal governmentnin a way that ought to give themnmore cause for complaint than the colonistsnhad for the Crown.” Like a disillusionednMercutio, and for much the samenreason, he pronounced a pli^e on thenhouses of both the Soviet Union and thenUnited States, and talked of becoming anCanadian citizen. His increasing bitternessnwas not the result of a serious reshapingnof his thought or philosophicalnspeculation. His crude pessimism wasnpersonal. “No clear line can be drawnnbetween man and the other animals.”ning forehead and a babylike expressionnof benevolent implacability.” He droppedna boiled shrimp on Edith Sitwell’s coiffurenand stared at it with “scrupulousncuriosity” while they discussed the incantatorynelement in poetry.nProkosch is the kind of writer who fellnbetween the literary cracks. Now 75 yearsnold and living in the south of France, henhas written 16 novels and four volumesnof poetry. His first novel. The Asiatics,npublished in 1935, was hailed by AndrenGide, Thomas Mann, and Albert Camus.nYeats praised his early poetry. But henwon no standing in the world of criticism,nnot even among those who writenfor the middle level of the populationnthat wishes to be au courant. For thosenwho want to read more of his work afternlooking at Voices, it should be noted thatnthe style of the novels is a good deal betternthan the style of the memoir. The poetrynis Americanized Walter de la Mare.nProkosch the novelist is a combinationnof Rafeel Sabatini and Paul Bowles; then”I know of few memoirs more hilariously readable than Voices. … it is fun when readnin the proper spirit”n—Jcdin SimonnThe New Republicn”[T]he memoir that [Prokosch] has written is curiously selfless.” —GoreMdalnNew York Review ofBooitsnWilson’s is one of the many voicesnFrederick Prokosch records in hisnmemoir. Voices First he presents AlbertonMoravia’s description of him: “You mustnremember that Edmund Wilson is a vulgarisateur…nI don’t refer to what onenmeans by vulgarity. I mean that he writesnfor the fashionable populace. Not thenlow level of population but the middlenlevel of populace, the ones who are e^ernto be au courant Edmund Wilson is bynno means vulgar but he speaks to a certainnmediocre populace.” Prokosch’s actualnmeeting with Wilson came at a receptionnfor the Sitwells, much biggerngame for our literary lepidopterist Wilsonn”has a petulant fat face with a high, loom-nnnstyle can be characterized as exotic/nerotic. Prokosch himself best describesnthe style of Voices “I hid behind… thenmask of a naif… and I finally turned mynshyness into a crafty sort of audacity.” Itnis the would-be naif who produces annoverwrought, cloying, coy style whichntends to discredit the veracity of the persona.nWhen Robert Frost’s hat is blownnby the wind, he looks “fi-antic” and “disheveled,”n”almost hysterical for a w^tehotninstant” The wind “screams insanely,”nand the boughs of a tree “squeal likenwounded cats.” At Cambridge “I sniffednat the air, probing for the music of IInPenseroso. Then I strained my ears toncatch a fleeting echo of Cbilde Harold “nHis Lincoln Continental was his “belovednMM^MilonNovember 1983n