Mr. Powys as a Mumbo-Jumbo-Brummel
This book takes no text; it employs no plot to give it body, no characters to give it blood and spirit. Its subject is the continent of Africa; and its strangeness proves once more the truth of an ancient apothegm concerning truth and fiction. Written in the manner of a novel and cast in the pattern of a travelogue, it belongs to that obscure hinterland of literature that W. H. Hudson visited in Green Mansions and Defoe, to a certain extent, in Robinson Crusoe.
Africa is a harsh nursery for...
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