IN THE SPARROW HILLS

Conscience, violence, the nature of memory, good and bad faith—these are some of the themes fluffed and styled by longtime literaryman Capouya (former literary editor of The Nation; now publisher of New Amsterdam Books) in what he terms ``stories,'' although they read more like feckless, somewhat unctuous memoirs. While intellectual and social anecdotes are related (recalling an incident in a Chekhov story that can't be later substantiated—a dream of grace visited Capouya's imagination by Chekhov; the embarassment of facing someone else's embarassment; the survival-of-the-fittest—and less qualified—in the work-world), Capouya returns again and again to his war experiences and the time he served as a merchant seaman: the drama of the sea and of spending weeks among other stressed men cast up lessons like spume. The writing is sculpted, self-conscious, occasionally quite beautiful—but from behind it seems to peek a vanity more intent on dis-expectation and tease than anything else: truths getting doled out in tiny half-spoonfuls. Odd—and also affected.