Gorey's taste for deadpan absurdity is sharpened by what he has called his "unreasonable interest in surrealism and Dada." He is a great fan of surrealist Max Ernst, and, just as Ernst rearranged 19th-century engravings into his own fantastic collages, Gorey recombines the elements of forgotten Victorian novels, reshuffling the set pieces and stock characters after his fancy. One of my favorites, The Object-Lesson, is constructed along these lines, piling delicious non sequitur on delicious non sequitur, like this: "It was already Thursday, but his lordship's artificial limb could not be found; therefore, having directed the servants to fill the baths, he seized the tongs and set out at once for the edge of the lake, where the Throbblefoot Spectre still loitered in a distraught manner."

But what really distinguishes Gorey are his meticulous, mock-lugubrious drawings. His handwriting imitates printing, his close hatching resembles lithography, and his creatures, even his houseplants, pose like silent-movie actors. The combination of care and whimsy in his illustrations is delightful, even wonderful. Unfortunately, the comparative crudeness of the drawings in The Headless Bust is immediately noticeable. The lines are thicker, and the awkward delicacy of his figures is diluted.

The story of The Headless Bust involves a starchy recluse, Edmund Gravel, and a giant beetle, the Bahhumbug. The Christmas party they threw in The Haunted Tea-Cosy winds down, another insect takes them to a provincial town and introduces the two to some peculiar characters. Returning home, they celebrate the turn-of-the-millenium over tea. Unfortunately, all this transpires through gawky verse, with a few amusing couplets interspersed.

The Headless Bust, along with The Haunted Tea-Cosy, made me giggle less than Gorey's other little books. I had to wonder, upon putting the book down, whether Gorey has grown tired of the very charms that are winning over more and more of the outside world.