ABSTRACT
One of the most brilliant and 'provocative' of the young after-war novelists is Aldous Huxley. With Crome Yellow he threw his individual top hat into the ring of militant satire. In Antic Hay he continues his fretful and ingenious gambols, which yield much laughter, on a rather shrill pitch. If his were really 'goat-feet dancing the antic hay,' if the blood of a satyr urged him instead of the mind of a satirist, we should have had a bigger book out of him. But he has the usual scunner of his generation against everything else, before or outside his generation. He affects an utter contempt for all persons in authority, all the fogies and hypocrites and respectable ones-and is totally unable to ignore them. It is to this gallery that he continually plays-a gallery which he pictures to himself as listening with fascinated horror to his audacities and irreverences; the chances being that it listens, if at all, with the indulgent smile which greets the newly-culled cussword of a small boy who is somewhat over-proud of his acquisition.
