S. J. Perelman is the most durable and, over the long haul, possibly the most brilliant of that familiar group of humorists whose wit fructified in the Twenties and Thirties and who found a spiritual home in the pages of The New Yorker. His new collection, "The Rising Gorge" (perhaps the most revealing of all Perelman book titles), substantiates the well-established opinion that the Master's forte is without question a biting, sardonic prose style, at times almost Dadaistic in its emphasis on the sound of words as an end in itself. Like Vladimir Nabokov, whom he most resembles in manner and technique, Perelman is at his best when creating sharp capsule sketches of human gargoyles….
All of the pieces in this collection are presented in some form of satire or parody…. The pieces on Hollywood are outrageously funny, mainly because Perelman, through his superb sense of mimicry, lets the stock types—producer, agent, mindless Brando imitator, vacuous starlet … parody themselves as they welter in pagan lushness…. [The travel sketches] are a refreshing antidote to the nonsense of the Robert Ruarks, and would be even better if the author had detached himself further from the Mitty-like narrator.
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