[Head in the Clouds] is a cloying book, dreary. Troyat occupies a universe which is pre-Sarraute, pre-Camus, indeed apparently contemporaneous with Maupassant's—his characters are puppets intended to enhance their author's self-esteem. From first to last, one disbelieves this story of two stereotypical middleaged spinsters whose uncharming life is transformed fatally by the appearance of a quirky, but charming young man. If the spinsters are so set in their ways, would the young man really be able to part them? And if they are as tiresome as Troyat says they are, wouldn't so socially deft a young man find headier Parisian pastures? Frankly, by page 20 or so, it's hard to care.