In a poem entitled Losing Merrygorounds, Miriam Waddington regrets that loss as well as "… the careful prose / of growing up". Indeed, throughout The Glass Trumpet, one feels that Miss Waddington is willing to abandon care entirely to avoid writing "prose". The battle against prose is exhausting, finding its expression in run-on syntax and sentimental attitudes. It includes lots of crying, wishing, dreaming, and singing. Half of everything seems to be blinded or blinding.

None of this would be quite as bothersome if Miss Waddington would exploit the best of the metaphors she so casually picks up, instead of dropping each for abstractions in those places where she is led to significant thought by her materials. The language is not without a talented urgency—quite deserving of care, even at the cost of the infiltration of "prose". As it is, all that this technique allows to be clear is...