Sparely written, slowly unfolding in the vein of a tone poem and sardonic lament. It’s as if the whole town is in on the tragedy, there are no innocents in the spectre of the mafia – the institution has thoroughly corrupted Sicily. All moral impulses are skewed for the worse. Information and knowledge are held close to one’s chest, everyone revels in concealment. Private vices and weaknesses can give rise to periodic and shockingly casual bloodletting. Murder is grim and scabrous. Hypocrisy, duplicity and sensualist expedience have moved beyond survival techniques to badges of honour. The naivete of the narrator lingers long after you’ve finished the book. Sciascia writes wonderful tales of woe, speaking truth to power with delicacy. Life is unfair, and then you die.