This would need a genius Mr. Neumann does not possess to rescue it from premature decay. The story in itself -- dealing with the flotsam and jetsam of disrupted Europe, and those samples washed up on England's shore from Spanish Civil War, concentration camps and refugees of invaded countries, has as heroine a strange young woman, known briefly to the mysterious writer who has spent a night with her before her suicide -- and who, in the two days preceding the inquest, wracks himself with violent and frenzied determination to uncover her story. And thus -- obliquely -- her tale is told, as he gathers the bits, and pieces them together. A murky past, shot with gleams of fanatical love of those forces opposed to fascism wherever found, shifting from Austria to Spain to Russia to France to England, and highlighted by the crossing of paths with the jealous lover, Mario. Difficult and unsavory reading, not aided by as ejaculatory a style as I've ever encountered. A book that would scarcely reward the problems of finding an appreciative market.