Despicably pedantic (though not as bad as Echo's Bones) but not without an air of eccentric, too often lame merriment. I can see now why this was suggested reading for the summer before going off to the nest of tweedy (as in "twee") mediocrities who attempted to teach one the meaning of literature. Classic case of a writer with little to say trying too hard. Clear why it wasn't published in the U$ till after Godot, though it first appeared in London, surprisingly, before, in 1938.
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