<p> <b>"The very model of the modern paranoid novel" (</b> <i> <b>New York Times</b> </i> <b>)—an ambitious work of semi-autobiographical fiction from one of England's greatest novelists.</b> </p> <p> <b>"Unblinking candor informs Waugh's dark, comic vision."―William Boyd, </b> <i> <b>Daily Telegraph</b> </i> <b> (UK)</b> </p> <p>Gilbert Pinfold is a reclusive Catholic novelist suffering from acute inertia. In an attempt to defeat insomnia he has been imbibing an unappetizing cocktail of bromide, chloral, and crème de menthe. He books a passage on the SS <i>Caliban </i>and, as it cruises towards Ceylon, he slips rapidly into madness.</p> <p>Almost as soon as the gangplank lifts, Pinfold hears sounds coming out of the ceiling of his cabin: wild jazz bands, barking dogs, and loud revival meetings. He is convinced that an erratic public-address system is letting him hear everything that goes on aboard ship . . .until instead of just sounds he hears voices. And not just any voices. These voices are talking, in the most frighteningly familiar way, about him!</p> <p> <b>"A genuine gothic horror, a gargoyle to terrify anyone who has ever contemplated a literary career. . . . The acid bath so often prepared for others has now found its way into his own tub. . . . Waugh draws an intimate picture of a distinguished author at bay." —Gerald Sykes, </b> <i> <b>New York Times Book Review</b> </i> </p> <p> <b>"A masterpiece of self-portraiture, one of the very best in English fiction."―John Bailey, </b> <i> <b>London Review of Books</b> </i> </p> <p> <b>"Waugh's clear-sightedness about himself . . . is something which, in this taut, brilliantly phrased and crafted story, is itself an assertion of order out of chaos."―A. N. Wilson, </b> <i> <b>Telegraph</b> </i> <b> (UK)</b> </p>