March 1960
Reading Miss Spark is a little like travelling at a depth of water to which one is utterly unaccustomed: the depth is precise, and one meets species which one would miss in shallower or deeper water; they are, one feels, more adapted to the pressure than oneself. It is neither light nor dark, but translucent, and one observes these creatures observing one another without really knowing the significance of their behaviour. Sometimes, in one’s ignorance - like children watching monkeys - they seem very funny, absurd, and repetitive; their ultimate indifference to one another is rather alarming, but they also seem to get upset by absolute trivialities … About three-quarters of the way through one realises that one is, after all, able to see these creatures, has been travelling at their depth so to speak, and begins to wonder rather uneasily whether the difference between them and oneself is quite what one supposed …
This novel is another phrenetic fantasy, this time dominated by a diabolical clown called Dougal Douglas, who wreaks change - which equates with havoc - in two textile industries and a collection of their workers. It is, as always with Miss Spark, very well done, and rather as though she chooses to pretend that people are butterflies and paints their portraits with a pin - which is exact without being true. Her dialogue has a kind of surrealist accuracy which reminds me of Mr. N. F. Simpson’s plays and, if you are entertained by him, she will entertain you, as she exposes a certain layer - an aspect of personality - which lies in all of us with such remorseless and entertaining brilliance that one cannot believe that it is the only layer she sees.