ABSTRACT
The essayist is out of fashion: the magazines that used to publish his elegant effusions have disappeared. And yet here is Mr. Huxley, who has practised the art for the past forty years and can now, from the contents of several volumes characterized by their variety (as volumes of essays should be), select another characterized by its unity. That, at least, is the excuse for this anthology, but Mr. Huxley remains as various as ever, for he never had the ability, which is again a virtue in the essayist, to keep to his subject. The subject of this volume is art, but the reader must be prepared for divagations on the sexual taboos of the
Eskimos, the dangers of over-population, or the pathological effects of an overdose of mescalin. For Mr. Huxley has a curiosity that ranges haphazardly over the whole universe, and his favourite reading (and reading is his only recreation) is the encyclopedia.
