Much of this book unfortunately is unsuccessful. It is crabbed and rather dazed. The author seems often like he is wandering in a long apartment whose lights have gone out..., though he presumably knows more or less the way. In Chapter 4 ("Modernism and Politics") he completely misses the connection between modernism and fascism, and sees modernism as necessarily progressive. Yet there are some fascinating insights in ch. 3 ("The Modernist Artist") on stream of consciousness and on the centrality of consciousness and on formalism in the modernist novel which are well worth reading if you find the book at hand. But even here the author has not developed them head on, and seems not fully to realize, or too distracted to 'realize' (in both senses of that term) that he has the tiger by the tail. A pity.