Nonetheless, when Connolly didnfocus on his task, he was unrivaled innhis editorial judgment. Horizon wasnresponsible for discovering George Orwellnas a social critic, publishing hisnunconventional excursions into Britishnpopular culture. It also introducednBritish readers to Truman Capote,nMary McCarthy, Ignazio Silone, andnOctavio Paz, among many others. Innfact, the magazine’s principal problemnwas never money, subscribers, or contributors—nit was fabulously successfulnalmost from the first issue—but paper,nglue, and other materials, which werenrationed according to a silly systemnwhich extrapolated from the amountsnused by magazines before the war,nwhen, of course, Horizon had notnexisted at all.nThe issue of government interferencenin cultural life (even to the extentnof rationing paper) is an interestingnsubtheme of this book that Seldennmight have developed a bit more explicitly.nLike most British intellectualsnof his generation, Connolly considerednhimself a man of the left, and favored,nas a matter of principle, governmentnfunding of the arts. However, he hadnthe good (or bad) fortune to start hisnmagazine during World War II, whennall of the collectivist impulses whichnhad been kept at bay by British domesticnpolitics in the 1930’s were suddenlyngiven license to overrun every quarternof national life. Connolly’s first experiencenwith public policymaking for thenai’ts was thus wholly negative.nBut things did not improve after thenwar, since the Labour governmentnwhich came into office in 1945 prolongednrationing for six more years,nand even extended it into new areas.nFor example, in 1947-48 the governmentnbanned the importation of foreignnbooks. The ostensible reason wasnto save currency, but Connolly sawnthrough the ruse; the Labour mandarinsnwere offended, he observed, byn”margins immorally wide and papernindecently thick.” The postwar periodnsaw the founding of the Arts CouncilnI of Creat Britain, which coincided withn(and no doubt to the extent that itncould, promoted) a rapid decline of thenquality of British writing and painting.nIndeed, the appropriate cultural mon­n38/CHRONICLESnument to the Atlee government is thenghastly “Festival of Britain” style.nUnder these circumstances, Connollynand Horizon found themselvesnlooking to America, where there werenalready more subscribers to the magazinenthan in Britain itself. By 1946nmuch of the most vigorous writing innthe English language was being producednin the United States. In fact,nConnolly’s characterization of the Britishncultural scene is not wholly irrele-‘nvant forty years on:nHere ego is at half-pressure;nmost of us are not men ornwomen but members of a vast,nseedy, overworked, overiegislatednneuter class, with our drabnclothes, our ration books andnmurder stories, our envious,nstricken, old-worid apathies andnresentment—a carewornnpeople.nHorizon could not, however, survive asna British literary review largely fillednwith contributions from Americannwriters. In any event, Connolly wasnwearying of his task, and Watson wasnlooking around for new ways to deploynhis money and interests. Both wereninvolved in new relationships whichndiverted their energies elsewhere —nConnolly with Barbara Skelton, formerlynmistress of King Farouk, Watsonnwith a worthless American who flednLondon to be a bookstore clerk in Rionde Janeiro, condemning his lover to annexpensive, lengthy commute. Thenmagazine closed down in 1950, and itsneditor-went back to literary journalism.nHis articles and reviews have sincenbeen collected in Previous Convictionsn(1963) and The Evening Colonnaden(1973) — two books that are a sourcenof continuing delight, revealing a firstclassnintelligence, and making us regretnthat Horizon could not have endured andecade or two more.nMichael Selden has written a wonderfulnbook — claiming for his own thenterrain formerly closed to Americansnby the incestuous clique of Britishnliterary historians. It was with considerableninterest that I read on the jacketnthat “he has been commissioned bynthe Estate of George Orwell to writenOrwell’s authorized biography.”nMark Falcoff is resident scholar at thenAmerican Enterprise Institute.nnnThe World IsnPlentynbyJ.O. TatenBrighten the CornernWhere You Arenby Fred ChappellnNew York: St. Martin’s Press;n212 pp., $15.95nThe last time we heard Jess Kirkmanntell stories about his father’snwondrous, humble life was in J AmnOne of You Forever (1985), a work ofnpower and humor and charm. Thatnbook reminded me, however, that thenword “novel” has hardly any meaningnnowadays, for the work seemed a suitenof stories united by a common narratornand single setting, but no more.nThe distinction I am trying to make,nif it is a legitimate one, is in no sense andeprecation of Fred Chappell’s writing.nI mean only to say that a suite is not ansymphony; that The Unvanquished isnnot Absalom, Absalom! Of course I’dnrather re-read The Unvanquished thannany number of contemporary “novels.”nAnd I’m very glad I read both InAm One of You Forever and Brightennthe Corner Where You Are, particularlynso when I reflect upon the largerncontext of their publication. FrednChappell writes with so much assurancenand humor, he gives such delightnand surprise, that he has distinguishednhimself among his peers as a fictionnwriter — never mind his even greaterncareer as a poet. A look at what passesnfor fiction these days probably meansnFred Chappell looks better than evennhe is. I mean, have you tried to readnMary Gordon’s The Other Side, ornaren’t you tired of living yet?nTo get down to cases, we have here anday in the life of Joe Robert Kirkman asntold by his son, who in turn is barely anpresence in his own narrative, thoughnhe is a knowing narrator for all that.nThe son is, like the father, a spinner ofntall tales, one who lives in that world ofnthe imagination in which we can talk tonanimals — and they can talk back. Innthat world anything can happen, andndoes. World and dream merge, and atnthe end Joe Robert is a giggling witnessnto his own dream. He declares, “Allnday long I have been trying to tell a lienand I haven’t had even a whiff ofn