Reading The Maids is like eavesdropping on an intimate Japanese conservation.
Javier Marais is fond of laying out all the possibilities: of what might have happened in the past, of what might be going on now, not in general, but line-per-line as the story unfolds.
The End of Eddy reads like an extended, intense essay, dashed off in white heat.
Amos Oz’s Judas is a story of delicate balances. The sort of novel where you wonder what a room is like when nobody is in it. Judas plays what-if games with history.