![]() ![]() ![]() “Miss McCarthy has come through brilliantly,” writes David Boroff. She found a Dauphin at last in the collective masculinity which is to be scraped together out of eight Vassar girls, class of ‘33. Yet it has happened to Mary, our saint, our umpire, our lit arbiter, our broadsword, our Barrymore (Ethel), our Dame (dowager), our mistress (Head), our Joan of Arc, the only Joan of Arc to travel up and down our raddled literary world, our poor damp kingdom, her sword breathing fire while she looked for a Dauphin to save us, looked these twenty years, and brought back nought. The reviews came in on wings of gold, “Brilliant” “Sheer” “Superlative” “Highly” “Generous” “Wonderfully Worth” “Great Joy To.” Not since Elizabeth Janeway wrote The Walsh Girls has any lady-book been given such praise by people such as these. Rogers, and Gilbert Highet, Edmund Fuller, all those Virgilia Petersons, Dennis Powers’s and Glendy Culligans. Arthur Mizener would stand to be counted, and Granville Hicks, Clifton Fadiman, W. ![]() ![]() It was in the command of all the ironies that there would come a day when our First Lady of Letters would write a book and lo! the lovers would stand. ![]()
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