A middle-class comedy of manners that lives up to working-class standards. A witty farce in the tradition of Wilde, Moliere, and Sheridan, full of stylized dialogue mixed with the least plausible plot and characterization imaginable. For once, an American play that is not dull or depressing and is completely lacking in any social agenda. Those with a preference for realism should stay the author finds the prospect of such a readership insufferably boring.
A work of art should stand on its own, divorced from the personality of the creator. That is the only way the creator can be a work of art in himself.
Bauvard fears for the moral fiber of the rare soul who does peruse him. Having a great deal to say about nothing often turns readers into reactionary optimists - and it is bad business to create supply amidst surplus.
His only hope is that the people of a distant time will have a look at his writings with a view to being edified and entertained. Not people of the future - his work will be too outdated and boring by then. No, Bauvard's books belong to the past. There are some who live as a ghost among the ancients.
Who, then, are his readers? The upright, the honest, the hard-working, the family-man - in short, the humane - should stay away at all costs. Bauvard's view of life is too uncompromising for them. But for the decadents, the freethinkers, the self-creators - they may approach with doubt.