Remembering all the praise that has been spread over Ogden Nash's seven preceding volumes by uncritical admirers and admiring critics—this reviewer having placed himself in both categories—and partially disarmed by the present deprecatory title, it must be admitted that "Good Intentions," the Master's latest collection, is (alas) far from his best. All the favorite Nashian devices are here: the oddly distorted but somehow matching lines, the new and old words startled to find themselves coupled in Procrustean rhyme—e.g., "vestibule" and "indigestibule," "mocassins" and "antitocassins," "heterogeneous" and "an etcetera genius"—the nimble lunacy which builds an anti-climax and topples a social foible with equal dexterity. The face and the manner are familiar—a shade too familiar. But something is missing. Is it the old spontaneity, the sense of ease in the midst of bewilderment? Can it be that the indefatigable recorder of the cockeyed is a bit weary, even a little disdainful of his role? Is the clowning gymnast anxious to go "straight," to play Horatio if not Hamlet? More than a few of the latest poems seem too careless to conceal their mechanics; some of them are not only dogged but dog-tired and (do I hear cries of "Treason!") dull.
But if there is a quantity of rationed ersatz Ogden, there is a satisfactory allotment of handpicked, sun-kissed, topflight, cream-of-the-crop Nash. In the 180 pages of "Good Intentions" there are many—perhaps fifty by an inexact comptometer—which will tease, titillate (or will they titivate?), pique, and possibly convulse any reader….
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