This is a book to be seen reading, or to say that you have read - whether you enjoy it is a secondary issue. It has an independent publisher (Granta), it is post-modern, it has an author who is both obscure and revered. Best of all, it’s not even Italian; it’s Sicilian.

But if the above make it a hard book to love, it has one major redeeming feature: it is very short. You don’t have to invest much time in it - lucky, or Sciascia’s casual round up and dismissal of his plot, like a millionaire lighting cigars with $100 notes, would be even more annoying.

He’s good, you see, Sciascia, and he knows what he’s doing. Unfortunately what he does here is slightly frustrating. He has a few other books in translation - I’ll be giving them a try; they’re short too. ( )