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the house at the end of the street by . . . Robert F. Young The woman you'll never find is the woman you'll love eternally—if you're one of the lonely men on the barren slopes of Earth. When we first read Robert F. Young's MISS KATY THREE all of the visions of beauty which had haunted us from boyhood seemed to tremble again ire evanescent splendor before our eyes. It tons a little like dipping into Keats for the first time and reading of "magic casements opening on the foam of perilous seas in faery land, forlorn." We hoped right then and there that Robert Young's muse would flame again in the same unexpected and lyrically breathtaking fashion. It has, and in this brand-new yarn. THERE IS A search which has endured through generations out of mind. It is a search in which you have participated if you are a man, and the extent to which you have participated is commensurate with the degree of your idealism. It is a search for a being who is at once the incarnation of our mem-ories and the embodiment of our expectations; of a being who is flesh and blood and yet not at all; who is simultaneously earthly and ethereal. It is a search, for all we know, for a non-existent being. To my knowledge she has never yet been found. But the brief moments when we think we have found her are certainly the best moments that we know, and if our goddesses in-variably turn out to have feet of clay, it is not to their discredit so much as it is to ours, for we, not they, have predicated their goddess- hood. Most men accept the non-exist-ence of that which they cannot find and settle for baser metal. Some-where in their late twenties or early thirties they cease to believe in goddesses and marry the daughter of the butcher, the baker or the candle-stick maker. They, I suspect, are
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