Cardboard characters, creepy cutouts--didn't believe a word by this facile film critic. Born Again a Holy Cow--ought to be illegal suggesting a sinister application. Identity not trowelled up like leeks. Take exception, award a sprig of spring onion found caught in laces of boot, press it in pages, ward off wards and weak wights.

Spirit informs like a gold glow, never interchangeable like multi-colored lights on a string. Seditious suggestion. Networks must be informed. Anchors enlisted. Nudes draped.

Waugh, Burgess but best also "Cards." Late Burgess left this out of his 100 list, and I had not yet read it when I discussed sustained narrative antic novels with him. This puzzles me. (I argued for Gravity, he plumped for V. Later in 100, he'd changed to Gravity. Egoist that I am, guess what I think. And, also, now I like V. Did he age well tho?)

Pungent, perhaps profound. Some peerless moments of exquisite conundrum. Disciplined prose, strongly flavored character motion, level evocation of REM unreality.

Inspiring. Worth writing tart poetry on its flyleaf. Don't not read now!

Actually Cards of Indentity is four books and a play. The "plot" involves a group of "psychologists" who take over a country home by mental tricks in order to hold a convention. Three of the books are 'papers' delivered at the convention. The play (which you will swear was written by Shakespeare) is the entertainment at the end of the convention. A must read.

The subject matter is dramatic intriguing and full of genuine anguish, but the writing is so overblown and self-satisfied that one has trouble finishing any of the stories here. The author can't keep away from cliches and hackneyed situations and characters and finally you give up expecting anything fresh or any character who doesn't fit a stereotype.