The paradox of Roy Campbell fascinates. As a poet he can be both superb and despicable. In technique and outlook ostensibly an isolated anachronism, he yet in a subordinate but distinctive way joins the ranks of Eliot, Pound, Yeats, and the Sitwells. In personality he could be humble and inward, but was also well known for swashbuckling exhibitionism and mischief. Once, having journeyed with friends to visit the Grand Old Man Thomas Hardy at Max Gate, he remained in the car, too awed to go in. In London, after World War II, he used to parade around in a King's African Rifles bush hat, carrying a knobkerrie, or in a bullfighter's cape and headgear. On one occasion, when he entered a busy pub in bullfighter's garb to meet his wife and a few friends, a whole roomful of strangers spontaneously rose to their feet. This story, unlike many...