If you say to me "road trip", a long road crossing the desert will come to mind. Strip-clubs and cheap night hotels on one side, flashy lights in the dark, every twenty miles or so. I can see, perhaps, the vampires of John Carpenter or the sick-os of McCormick, and the convertible Thunderbird that is carrying away Thelma and Louis, squeezing their last drop of conspiracy and understanding, straight down to the cliff.
But Muriel Spark is offering a different road trip. Great stuff. Not many women are able to drive the reader through the dialogue of a couple of couples taking mean on the gin on a Saturday night in the West End of 1957. Two women, Caroline and Eleanor, one taking the arm of the other, ready to leave, and one putting on her lipstick in the toilet, talking straight on a woman-to-woman basis: "Men are clods"... Oh, the red lipstick on thin -but profound- lips. That's a road trip, isn't it?
(PLEASE, LEAVE YOUR COMMENT).
But Muriel Spark is offering a different road trip. Great stuff. Not many women are able to drive the reader through the dialogue of a couple of couples taking mean on the gin on a Saturday night in the West End of 1957. Two women, Caroline and Eleanor, one taking the arm of the other, ready to leave, and one putting on her lipstick in the toilet, talking straight on a woman-to-woman basis: "Men are clods"... Oh, the red lipstick on thin -but profound- lips. That's a road trip, isn't it?
(PLEASE, LEAVE YOUR COMMENT).
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