[Gemini] is an octopus of a book, and a pretentious octopus at that. Its tentacles thrash in many different directions, getting nowhere: it is unwieldy, slippery—the sort of book that makes you think either you or the author is suffering from some form of mental disorder.

The central 'love story' is of identical twins, a lustreless pair who seem something of a burden to their author once he has begun to grapple with his good idea. The character about whom he really enthuses is their preposterous Uncle Alexandre, 'dandy garbage man', a homosexual in endless pursuit of love. Alexandre runs a successful refuse disposal business which gives the author the opportunity to be literature's Rembrandt of rubbish: the descriptions of rotting filth are indeed compelling. The book is full of powerful and revolting images….

After Alexandre's own death (and he predominates for some 300 pages) the lively poison seems to evaporate. The twins are turned to again, lifelessly: one of them gets engaged, the other jealously breaks that up. So the disengaged one stomps off round the world, followed by the cross one. The way is thus opened to Monsieur Tournier to make use of much travelling experience, perhaps funded by his prize money. We get an intellectuals' guided tour of Venice (reflections on Vivaldi), and Japan (essays on the Zen garden). There are the occasional glimmers of searingly impressive description. But not enough to alter the conclusion that Gemini is a book that should be flung on one of those rubbish dumps to which the author is so attracted.