The Time is Noon, by Hiram Haydn
The time is noon is a weary novel whose earnest mediocrity makes one weak with melancholy. There is a genuine pathos in a book of this sort, something gloomily American and up-to-date in its generous intentions and stingy results. The book is not meant to be acceptable, not designed for mindless comfort; it wants, in its optimistic, endless fashion, to be good, honest, and profound, to say something honorable and significant. But it suffers from much love and little policy, for Haydn has very little to say and yet he has written a very long book.
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