Over on Vulpes Libris I’ve spent time wondering why Barbara Pym’s novel Jane and Prudence (1953) is so unsatisfactory, despite its many magnificent moments. I love Pym’s novels so much, yet this one is the slightly bruised apple, the rather unpleasant chocolate from the second layer in the box, the pair of tights with the hole in the toe, or even the leaden pastry. Her technique is the problem; her editor let her down.
Kate Macdonald 