Remembering all the praise that has been spread over Ogden Nash's seven preceding volumes by uncritical admirers and admiring critics—this reviewer having placed himself in both categories—and partially disarmed by the present deprecatory title, it must be admitted that "Good Intentions," the Master's latest collection, is (alas) far from his best. All the favorite Nashian devices are here: the oddly distorted but somehow matching lines, the new and old words startled to find themselves coupled in Procrustean rhyme—e.g., "vestibule" and "indigestibule," "mocassins" and "antitocassins," "heterogeneous" and "an etcetera genius"—the nimble lunacy which builds an anti-climax and topples a social foible with equal dexterity. The face and the manner are familiar—a shade too familiar. But something is missing. Is it the old spontaneity, the sense of ease in the midst of bewilderment? Can it be that the indefatigable recorder of the cockeyed is...