Light Years

Inevitably, of course (because this is America), lurking behind the praise for Salter's achievement is the standard second-guess about all fine writing: that it's mandarin, arty for art's sake, prettied and exclusive, and that as such it conceals an absence of something crucial-someone's version of gritty substance, usually - which we Americans absolutely won't put up with (unless we do).
It's as if to be truly American and truth-qualifying we always have to bare the unpretty parts, tote the heavy lumber, get splinters in our hands - and in our sentences.

There are, however, no splinters in Salter's sentences. Relatively compact, it is no easy novel to sum up, so nuanced is its view human beings, so rich and varied its fictive effects, so large its intention.