What I like about Margaret Millar’s novels is that every chapter is strong enough and laced with enough character, tone and climax to function as its own short story.
It’s as if the lead character of a madcap Hunter S Thompson novel has stumbled into a Graham Greene thriller – that’s the best way I can hope to set the scene for Rafael Bernal’s 1969 cult classic The Mongolian Conspiracy.
I must’ve started reading this 933 page epic a year or so ago. From the first chapter I knew I loved it. And yet it took me so long to actually get through it. I realise now that I didn’t want to part with it.
Pushkin Press helped bring Reve’s masterwork The Evenings to wider attention and now they’ve followed it up with another beautifully artworked addition for your European literature shelf.
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.