ABSTRACT

Professor Leavis recently accused C. P. Snow of not having the slightest idea of what the novel is. Facing this batch of new novels, I find myself envying Leavis his confidence. All of them are called novels on their jackets, yet they are about as different from each other as six works could possibly be. It would be easy to move down through the lot, ruling one after another out of the circle where only true novels dwell. In fact the chorus of 'not a true novel' has already been sung, in public, for at least two of these works, and we can be quite sure that sooner or later it will be sung for the rest.