ABSTRACT
Mr. Huxley has disappointed us. His progress from the light-hearted ideas of Crome Yellow to the deft caricatures of Antic Hay and the drift from character to action that was presaged in 'Young Archimedes' has led nowhere. It is the tragedy of the 'young English intellectuals' who have hailed Huxley as their chieftain that this leader has preyed upon and exploited their shallow shams and solemn absurdities with the apposite skill of Satan rebuking vice; it is Aldous Huxley's misfortune that, to date, he has not been able to rise above his source and that his work, for all its sparkling charm, should have made no more progress toward fruition than has his generation.
