Michael de Percy's Reviews > The Game
I purchased this novella in the village this morning and, once started, was unable to put it down. As I read, I recalled Jack London's lack of finesse in writing up a romance, then the blood boil of combat and wishing for younger days, then a thought of this obviously Boy's Own adventure and how much nonsense it all is once youth has gone and the reality of buck fighting days haunts one with arthritis and chronic pain. London keeps one on the edge of one's seat like a ne'er-travelled, mono-cultural cou rouge watching a patriotic war movie, only to send them down into a crisis of existentialism as well as any Hemingway could muster. Just like that.
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