The Sundial

The word “horrid” seems to have fallen into disuse, how lovely that I get a chance to use it now! Not the book—its characters. Dreadful, the lot of them: self-absorbed, venal, contemptible from the very first page and increasingly more so.

Jackson had a gift for depicting us at our ghastliest. Here she uses a variety of paintbrushes, at times inspiring disgust, other times pity, once in a while veering into almost (Preston) Sturgesesque levels of farce. Her dialogue is believably natural. Her social commentary a bit heavyhanded at times but always spot-on. I’m left with mixed feelings: I want to read more of her work, but not for a while.