Let Me Lie

NOTWITHSTANDING the many critics who have condemned him as a faulty observer of life, James Branch Cabell must be reckoned with in any estimate of contemporary American literature. He represents a way of life and letters, anachronistic as it may seem to be, that has been both productive and inspirational. He has been called an escapist, a perennial tenant of the ivory tower, a mart who writes about life while taking great pains to remain aloof from it. His new collection of essays, Let Me Lie. is, in part, an explanation and, if Mr. Cabell will bear with me, an apologia. In his Epilogue, wherein Cabell Senior discourses at length with Cabell Junior, Cabell Senior recognizes that he, like all well-born Virginians, has possibly been dwelling in a fool’s paradise, following a dream as the one true reality of life, insisting only, be it false or misleading, that it be noble. That this philosophy may be a negative one, he fully realizes, reluctantly admitting that, by all earthly standards, be and his class may have failed.

Much of the material in Let Me Lie has appeared, in one form or another, in the Atlantic and other publications. The net whole, however, presents a well-rounded collection of Cabellana that should delight his many readers, while making a first acquaintance with this prolific Virginian a remarkable adventure. He ranges, with the unmistakable Cabell touch, from “The First Virginian,” the little-known saga of a gregarious Ajacan Indian chief who became a Spanish grandee, to “Miss Glasgow of Virginia,” a personalized criticism of the work of one of his oldest and most devoted friends. In between, he holds forth on such intrastate items as John Smith and the Pocahontas legend, Virginia’s failure to excel in the creative arts, Robert E. Lee, and Mrs. Louisa Nelson, the author’s perennially fifty-two years old mammy. It would be an unconscionable breach of faith to discuss these delicate and charming little essays of Virginia in any greater detail; Cabell must be read to be fully appreciated and understood.

There are moments when the reader will indignantly kick up his heels and accuse Mr. Cabell of being pontifical, otherworldish. or cynical. He will frequently resent the necessity of keeping a dictionary, an encyclopedia, and an atlas within arm’s reach. But few will deny that the author possesses a charm and a detached exuberance which, combined with his delightfully rambling conversational style, make for extremely pleasant reading and recollection.

WILLIAM M. KUNSTLER