Coming to the end of A Simple Tale, the first of two novellas in this volume, I found myself so full of admiration that I couldn't think of anything critical to say at all. Conscious that the term 'perfect' is not illuminating, I read the story again, determined to do better. With relief, I noted that Messud's sentences can be long and convoluted; I tutted as I went back a few lines. But each time I reread a sentence, I found that her language stretched meaning in such a way that I could not wish it otherwise. And her precision compels attention:
The bed was high É her feet dangled a few inches above the carpet, sweeping, like divining rods, in search of her slippers.
Who would not read on?
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