What a beautiful classic that is. The writing is perfect, as delicate as the fragile bones of the novel's main character, as nostalgic as his sweet and strange soul, as precise as his feline eyes. The Man Who Fell To Earth sounds, by its title, like any other science fiction work from the 50s. But it is not. It is a finely crafted, bittersweet piece of prose and a very rare find, as if Ursula Le Guin had written one of Philip K Dick's stories.
