YOU CANNOT HELP BUT SEEK THE AUTHOR IN HER WORK
expression of inadequacy). Here, the observations are Harry’s but the author is present in the novel’s covert metafictionality (drawing attention to its own conditions of being): In authorship, the author is not the tree scattering his books like leaves; the books are the tree; the author is shed, blown away, dies to make compost for other leaves and other trees.
All Frame’s books are hearty, hardy trees. They should be visited often. It’s a delight to have this one revealed, standing strong and tall, palpably alive, alongside the others.