Knopf, 621 pp., $22.95
Inscrutable as an owl, Ivy Compton-Burnett sits out on a limb of literature, singular, eccentric, and keeping herself to herself. 'Her work seems to encourage false generalizations . Though easy to read, she is a hard writer to grasp,' wrote Mary McCarthy; and she went on to compare her to 'a giant footprint or a flying saucer,' baffling her critics. 'Doubtless by her own wish, she remains a phenomenon, an occurrence in the history of letters. It would appear to be hubris to try to guess her riddle.'[1]
Review, 4487 words
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