The opening of Equinox—'Air like mountain air, like mountain water which hardly seems to be there when you turn the tap on, soap lathering on a caress'—daunts. But after this first froth of ad-copy it becomes a remarkably fine novel. Microscopically introspective, a thirty-ish wife tirelessly prods the dying nerve of her marriage. Her scientist husband is a smart-alecky vulgarian whose boredom flares into occasional irritated antagonism or sexual rough-stuff. Liz, hurt by neglect, wavers between vicious resentment and craven fear of the void ahead. Difficult to tell how conscious she is of speeding the break-up by her frigidity and peevishness, but this is revealed with an unblinking accuracy that gives the impact of truth. (p. 114)