i've just finished willem elsschot's 1933 novella cheese. was it the comic novel it was described as? i guess, although i felt much more saddened. of course, elsschot's understated humour is not penelope fitzgerald's gentle indulgent mockery, but a shrewd (and not always kind) roving eye noting events knowingly. i am terribly sorry for the inept and earnest mr laarmans, whom paul vincent calls a kind of quixote/walter mitty, and that is probably right. i wish there was more elsschot available in english. and i see from amazon that there will be a reissue of "villa des roses" this november, though probably not a new translation. i shall get myself one.