Wyndham Lewis's 1932 novel Snooty Baronet has received little of attention that focuses on this spikily provocative writer's work. Two of most valuable book-length studies of Lewis, Fredric Jameson's Fables of Aggression and David Ayers's Whydham and Western Man, barely mention it. One earlier study, Hugh Kenner's Wyndham Lewis, characterized novel as likable but minor, peppy and pointless (109), and another, William Pritchard's Wyndham Lewis, saw it as the novelist's last gesture in a blind alley (114). The relative obscurity in which Snooty Baronet abides fell upon it as early as its original publication. Bradford Morrow and Bernard Lafour-cade, Lewis's chief bibliographers, found only three contemporary reviews (288-89). The bad odor lingering from receptions of The Apes of God (1930), an enormous and impolitic satire on several highly recognizable London literary figures, and of Hitler (1931), a myopic piece of special pleading for not-yet-in-power Nazis and their leader, may explain silence. himself suspected a boycott, (1) but Morrow and Lafourcade located 12 notices of The Doom of Youth, a polemical work, and nine of Filibusters in Barbary, a travel book, both published in 1932, so there is no reason to suppose Lewis's books were being systematically ignored (286-89). Snooty Baronet certainly ran into unusually hard circumstances, however. It was first of his novels for which he found no US publisher (the first US edition was a Haskell House reprint in 1971). In England, according to Lewis, both Boots's and Smith's lending libraries, uncomfortable with novel's passages of sexual description, hit upon singularly effective suppressive strategy of buying only 25 copies and keeping them off public display shelves, thus restricting novel's availability without giving it sales boost that an outright ban might have effected (Creatures 184-85). As if all that were not enough, Rupert Grayson, whose firm had published Filibusters in Barbary, initiated a suit for libel on detecting his own likeness in Humphrey Cooper, one of Snooty Baronet's characters (Meyers 218-19). Inscribing a copy for an acquaintance years later, wrote, This is bad hat of my family of books [...] (qtd. in Materer 100). Bad hat though it may be, Snooty Baronet deserves and rewards attention, as I hope to show with a two-track argument. First, there is question of whether Lewis merely employs fiction as a means to explore violent implications of current social (Foshay 108). The novel certainly targets ideas of John B. Watson, American behaviorist psychologist, but to take that as closing discussion of book, rather than opening it, is to miss an opportunity to situate novel in Lewis's career as a polemicist and to explore craggy, fissured contours of his worldview, one of Anglo-American modernism's vastest and strangest ideological edifices. That novel emerges from Lewis's campaign against behaviorist psychology is quite true, but it should not be horizon of discussion, because behaviorism was messily cathected to everything else feared and loathed. Second, reading proposed here will argue that behaviorism is for no ordinary antagonist. Like a tar-baby, it is one from which he cannot extricate himself. Two of novel's relatively few advocates, Timothy Materer and Daniel Schenker, see its main value in its attack on behaviorism and its main formal achievement in Lewis's orchestration of an unwitting self-exposure, by narrator and title character, Sir Michael Keil-Imrie, of his own viciousness and moral inanity. Materer compares Lewis's novel to Lolita in that Kell-Imrie, like Humbert Humbert, attempts a narrative of self-justification but instead, at length, more clearly reveals his own guilt, making plain pseudo-scientific inhumanity of behaviorist theories was satirizing (101). …