Autumn Fields. By Michael Home. (Methuen. 12s. 6d.) ALTHOUGH Mr.
Home's novels are unknown to the present reviewer, it is clear that this is an omission to be rectified as soon as possible. For Autumn Fields reveals the born writer. Of course, his manner of writing about Breckland, the scene of this most happy auto- biography, in no way indicates his manner of writing about Libra, the scene, apparently, of his best-known novels ; yet it would seem doubtful whether Mr. Home could write badly about anything. Nothing comes between him and his reader: even the shapes of his sentences betray the man—humorous, outspoken, sensitive, un- conventional, and obviously a man of many parts. Mainly his latest book is a lively evocation of the remote Norfolk village where, fifty years ago, he was a boy. Norfolk has produced a number of good books recently, but none of them betters Autumn Fields for the ease with which it plants the Norfolk character on the printed page. Were there not Homes in Norfolk when Doomsday was compiled? That being so, who is better qualified to describe the rugged indi- vidualists who people it? Indeed, in a long list of childhood reminiscences, this book should be placed near the top, for a kindli- ness without detraction from the truth, for a vividness in attention to detail, and for a humanity as wise as it is rare. All East Anglians will love this lively book, with its many stories to mirror the genuine country character and its gallery of pictures of genuine country folk ; but it will have admirers too, from Land's End to Gretna Green, for it is as English as it is Norfolk.
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