Robinson is my tenth novel by Muriel Spark, and one thing I can say with confidence: you never quite know what you’re going to get. Maybe that’s not entirely true. You can expect something off-kilter and slightly astringent, with a dash of Catholicism. But the shape that takes is always a surprise.

Robinson begins with January Marlow (not Jan, as she reminds us) looking back on the time she was stranded on a remote island as one of only three survivors of a plane wreck. The island is called Robinson, after its isolated and enigmatic owner, who purchased it years before and now lives there with his adopted son.

From the start, Robinson encourages January to keep a journal, recording only the facts. That instruction feels simple enough, but what does that mean? Why only the facts? What is a fact?

Where this short, strange book goes from there is much of the pleasure, so I won’t spoil it. As often happens when I read Spark, I finished both satisfied and pleasantly confused. There is something here about power, faith, group psychology, and performance that I suspect will reward rereading.

But beyond that, I had a great time with this one. After all, out of nowhere, we get something like this:

To teach a cat to play ping-pong you have first to win the confidence and approval of the cat. Bluebell was the second cat I had undertaken to teach; I found her more amenable than the first, which had been a male.

Only Spark!

Two months and two books in, and I am so glad to be reading Muriel Spark in publication order! Next month we read 1959’s Memento Mori, one I’ve yet to read!