ARFON. By Rhys Davies. (Foyle. 12s. 6d.)—Arfon grew up stunted,
deformed, and by reputation an idiot. It was a poor set of qualifications for life in the rural Wales of modern literature. Mr. Rhys Davies is a deft horror-monger. He weaves pain and oppression into the texture of the boy's adolescence with quiet artistry ; he can paint squalor and bestiality in their authentic colours. But he has nothing to put in the other scale. The ideal beauty of Arfon's inner life, the high-romantic interpretation of his feelings for the slut he finally murders are handled with less skill and less conviction than the unendurable nastiness which they should at once relieve and justify. A vile deed by a wretched boy in depressing surroundings has no power to move in a world where all is vile and wretched and depressing. Mr. Rhys Davies should cultivate a sense of proportion. So should his publishers. There is a difference between scarcity and scarcity-value." You cannot confer the latter on a short story by publishing four hundred copies of it, in an undistinguished format, at 12s. 6d.
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