ˌɔn dᵻsˈɛmbɚ fˈɪftiːn, nˈaɪntiːnhˈʌndɹɪd fˈɪfti fˈaɪv, ðə tˈaɪmz kɹˈɪɾɪk ɐnˈɑːnəməs ɪn ðoʊz dˈeɪz ɹˈoʊt ɪn ɐ ɹᵻvjˈuː: "mˈɪstɚ. bɹˈʊk ɹˈaɪts wɪððə dˈɪsɪplˌɪnd fɹˈiːdəm ðæt hɐz ˈɔːlweɪz lˈɛd hˌɪm, ɛntʃˈæntᵻd ænd ɛntʃˈæntɪŋ, ɹˈaʊnd ðə spˈaɪɚɹəlz ʌv hɪz pˈɜːsənəl ɛkspˈiəɹɪəns.
On December 15, 1955, the Times critic – anonymous in those days – wrote in a review: "Mr. Brooke writes with the disciplined freedom that has always led him, enchanted and enchanting, round the spirals of his personal experience.