Hugh Walpole was, along with such forgotten authors as Priestly and Bennett, one of the most popular writers of middle-brow fiction in Britain during the early and middle years of the Twentieth Century. His biographer, Rupert Hart-Davis, was, for a few years, the publisher of his own imprint that specialized in fine books concerning that soon-to-be extinct literary specimen, the man of letters. Rupert Hart-Davis was also a close friend of Walpole's; and this biography is a labor of love, which, inadvertently, is also a hilarious send up of literary culture. Walpole was a hack, tis true, tis true. And Rupert Hart-Davis knew that in his heart of hearts (a hack cliche if ever there was one). And so, Rupert Hart-Davis writes a brutally honest biography ticking off Walpole's deficiencies while all the time trying to maintain some shred of literary dignity for his subject. There are lots of howlers throughout this book, such as those concerning Walpole's love of Turkish baths, which Rupert Hart-Davis fails to discern played a large role in homosexual culture at the time. Indeed, Rupert Hart-Davis is not too sure what to make of Walpole's homosexuality, although he drops veiled hints here and there about it. As a result, one winds up with bizarre anecdotes concerning Walpole's Woosterish antics to avoid the pressing attentions of various femme fatales. Oh, and Mr. Pooter makes a recurring appearance as well. If you're in the right humor, this is a delightful, and very well written, book. Not for the serious minded.