The main objection to his work is its fundamental lack of coherent action. For the most part all is clear and definite; but when we might reasonably expect a dramatic culmination of some sort, the narrative becomes tenuous and unimportant, and at length dissolves into vapid fancies resembling the oddities of Mr James Stephens in his less serious moods. The fault is largely the result of an incongruous mixture of genuine realism and whimsicality—the author is unable to control his imagination, and when pressed for a solution drops into unseemly mannerisms—short sentences, illegitimate surprises, and childish personifications. With a little alteration the three stories might be woven into a satisfactory novel; but the book as it stands is immeasurably better than the unreadable crop of pot-boilers. Mr Powys is neither a windy romancer nor a reporter of actualities; in his spiritual groping he has felt deeply and hated bitterly; he has thrown a scorching light on the stingy souls of the Dorset villagers, and has produced a shocking book—shocking, that is, in the aesthetic sense.
