The wisdom of Confucius, with critical and biographical sketches by Epiphanius Wilson

When in the early days I got a mention anywhere, I eagerly sought out the review, and I felt deep satisfaction if it was even mildly commendatory, begging Macmillan to send me photocopies of similar mentions in their files. My style, I soon learned, was БЂњmandarinБЂ«and БЂњlabyrinthine,БЂ«and although not quite sure of the significance of either epithet, I rather enjoyed them both. БЂњAlas, the styleБЂ¦ БЂ«were the first three words of a shortish review once in The Times, and I read no more. I had a mixed bag of reviews from the pens of some distinguished critics, including A. N. Wilson, a writer I (once!) admired, who told his readers that he just could not read my pages. I was tempted to get my own back at him by never reading any more of his pages. On the other hand, I well remember treasuring (forgive me!) the judgment of Marcel Berlins, UKБЂ™s most respected crime critic, who wrote that Morse was now БЂњa giant among fictional detectives.БЂ«I wrote to only two reviewers. One was a local woman, herself an embryonic crime writer, I believe, who accused me (or was it Morse?) of being a БЂњbreast fetishistБЂ«in The Way Through the Woods ...»