Those who read King's Row for its lascivious and abnormal aspects will doubtless relish this unwholesome novel of New York literati. Personally, I thought King's Row vastly superior on every count. Seager seems -- in the first half -- to be straining to establish a reputation as an American Evelyn Waugh. There are pages of bright, modern conversation -- stylized repartee -- a level of smartness that becomes smart-alecky. The people are unreal; Dick Miles, blase, disillusioned correspondent, fed up with the phony war and the brittle emptiness of Europe, coming home to play father to a sixteen year old daughter; Verplanck, psychiatrist, who gloats over successive experiments on human victims, like a small vicious boy impaling live insects; Marjorie, Miles' ex-mistress, boasting of living alone and liking it, refusing to marry Miles and then marrying Verplanck because she is afraid of insecurity; and others, actors, victims et al. Then, abruptly, the story comes to a focus, Mary and her father, newly discovering each other, fall incestuously in love. And Verplanck and Marjorie choose their own ways of toruture, and bring lovely Mary to suicide -- and her father to seeking again the old restless life. A strange story, which held for me neither particular interest or compulsion.