frightfully hot, believe me. The face is slablike, the ears are large
and fastened on at right-angles. Above the eyebrows comes a stagnant
sea of bald forehead, stretching away into the distance with nothing
to relieve it but a few wisps of lonely hair. The nose is blobby, the
eyes dull, like those of a fish not in the best of health. A face, in
short, taking it for all in all, which should be reserved for the gaze
of my nearest and dearest who, through long habit, have got used to it
and can see through to the pure white soul beneath. At any rate, a
face not to be scattered about at random and come upon suddenly by
nervous people and invalids.

And yet, just because I am an author, I have to keep on being
photographed. It is the fault of publishers and editors, of course,
really, but it is the photographer who comes in for the author's hate.

Something has got to be done about this practice of publishing
authors' photographs. We have to submit to it, because editors and
publishers insist. They have an extraordinary superstition that it
helps an author's sales. The idea is that the public sees the
photograph, pauses spell-bound for an instant, and then with a cry of
ecstasy rushes off to the book-shop and buys copy after copy of the
gargoyle's latest novel.

Of course, in practice, it works out just the other way. People read a
review of an author's book and are told that it throbs with a passion
so intense as almost to be painful, and are on the point of digging
seven-and-sixpence out of their child's money-box to secure a copy,
when their eyes fall on the man's photograph at the side of the
review, and they find that he has a face like a rabbit and wears
spectacles and a low collar. And this man is the man who is said to