What I love about Margaret Millar is that you know she’s playing with you but she only lets you get close enough to see the shadows of her deception.
There is a paradox in all great short stories: they leave large marks that bely their stature. Like a tiny comet crashing to Earth, they are brilliantly devastating forces of nature that make a hell of a profound impact.
Dard is brilliant at describing the unspoken tones of noir – the creeping dread, the red-blooded lust and the vein-bulging tell-tale signs of sin’s smothering aftermaths.
As we immerse ourselves in a bracing loss of innocence, we are riveted to the rhythm of this doom spiral.
Often when reading narratives that decide to play with time, jumping back and forth without warning, I wonder if the book would hold up as well if it were rearranged in chronological order.
There’s a tenderness within Gazdanov that seems to recall Carson McCullers or Anne Tyler