It’s been a long time since I’ve come across a book so unexpectedly startling as Nicholas Mosley’s Hopeful Monsters.
At the end of it, I find myself wordless and in awe, as if I’d experienced a flash of satori, wanting to but unable to say anything of the insight.
I can find surprisingly little written about the book.
It won the Whitbread Book of the Year in 1990, in itself surprising, since the Whitbread was supposed to be (at least then) a more populist alternative to the Booker Prize…
