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THE CLASSLESS STATE, considered by many to be socially ideal, is only achieved in the world of books by fiction. Rivalling the marketing boards in zeal, librarians passionately mark down eggs to the fifth place after the decimal (641.665 13) and, deaf to the entreaties of geographers, callously separate Mother Earth from her children. Why, then, should the most individualistic form of writing enjoy a sequestered Stellen‐bosch? Is P. G. Wodehouse neither fish, flesh, nor good red herring that he must be denied a number—a privilege accorded him even in the concentration camp? Must Harriet Beecher Stowe rub shoulders with Gertrude Stein and James Janeway doss down with Jerome K. Jerome? It is hard luck for squares, who have moved in such different circles, to have to toe the party line, when, being immortal, they might reasonably expect to be given the freedom of the Heavenly City.

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