I just loved this. James Darke is surely the nicest misanthrope I’ve ever had the pleasure of meeting in literature. He’s a widower, getting on in years, and we first meet him as he begins the process of barricading himself in his house so that he will no longer have to interact with a world that has become increasingly hateful to him. Even for a misanthrope his is an extreme reaction but part 2 of the novel gives the reader the reason for his turning his back on other people. And very moving that reason is too. Part 2 is quite a tour de force with some wonderfully evocative writing. The book is an exploration of love, loss and grief. It deals with some very important issues indeed about how we live and how we die. But it’s also very funny at times as well. Darke’s rants are enormously entertaining, especially when he’s having a dig at some of the great names in literature, such as “that frigid snitbag” Virginia Woolf, or Joan D’Idiot) or contemporary figures such as the editor of Private Eye. It doesn’t matter if the reader doesn’t get these references and allusions but it’s great fun if you do. I relished all his put-downs and some of the one-liners made me laugh out loud. And yet there’s empathy here as well, and tenderness and a wish to connect. There’s a wonderful episode when he babysits his grandson. Difficult to maintain his misanthropy when faced with a small boy staying overnight. Because behind all his disdain and anger and resentment there’s a good man, capable of love, and if you read the book to the end you will find him.