This is the second Isherwood I read. I didn’t like the first one (A Single Man), and I can’t say I really liked this one, either. The characters are unlikable: one a fickle, hypocritical liar and the other a husk of a religious man. The writing is competent but not beautiful. The plot is thin and unfinished. It’s just not my thing. I picked it up because I liked the cover — pink and orange Indian men in various poses on a dark purple background, a slanted font for the title, Isherwood’s signature for his name — but this is just proof that sometimes you really can’t judge a book by its cover.
It was short, and I didn’t want to start over with a new M-book!