"WYNDHAM LEWIS, THE MAN WHO WAS WRONG ABOUT EVERY- thing except the superiority of live mind to dead mind; for which basic verity God bless his holy name."--thus Ezra Pound's summary appraisal of his long-time friend and associate. He is one of the great painters of the twentieth century--in the perhaps unguarded judgment of Walter Sickert "the greatest portraitist who ever lived." He has written The Revenge for Love, a twentieth-century classic; Tarr, "the first book of an epoch," a novel of great sporadic power; and Time and Western Man, one of the key books for the student of modern thought. Yet so much achievement seems less than that of several other contemporaries, and less than would seem to be promised by a career of ceaseless intellectual activity that since 1909 has spawned --almost as by-products--forty books and countless pictures. It is not wholly because of boycott (though he has . . .