David Szalay is known as an emptier of hidden pockets of English life: his previous novels have explored telesales (London and the South-East) and horse-racing tips (Spring). Like its predecessors, his new book is populated by small men with oversized ambitions (one is even a refugee from London and the South-East) and illuminates some interestingly shady worlds (prostitution in London’s glitzy hotels; bargain-basement tourism in Cyprus). But in two key respects it marks a departure: it’s more short story collection than novel (despite being marketed as the latter), and its lens is pan-European rather than narrowly English.
It proves a triumph because Szalay keeps the writing so judgment-free
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