Still

This is a prodigiously rich and allusive book ... We haven't been exposed to such a Rabelaisian gusto of language... if you want to claim that you have lived through this century, that you think you 'understand' its peculiar English seas, its psychological immensities - not least those of self-deception - here is your book.

John Fowles, Spectator

Complex and playful, joyous and devastating, something as downright relevant as the tip of your nose ... Still is actually a film in fiction. It's as bright and disjointed as The Waste Land.

The Observer

Enduring, effervescent ... A masterpiece of slipstreaming, sinuous prose.

Scotland on Sunday