Mary McCarthy’s second book satirises the everyday struggles of a utopian commune seeking refuge after the destruction of the Second World War. She hardly troubles to disguise her characters, which caused an explosion of outrage among the literary elite of the day, who did not fail to recognise themselves among her uncharitably, but all-too-accurately drawn portraits. It must be admitted: It is a cruel book. But it has outlasted its first detonation and can now be enjoyed for its aphoristic, cold-blooded dissection of the vanities of human endeavour.