Yesterday I read Gail Godwin’s The Perfectionists, a slyly creepy and dark novel about a family on vacation. Under the warmth of the Mallorcan sun, the three elements, already unstable, whirl into a chaos of mental and physical abuse.  The three are John, a psychotherapist with no feelings other than for his own self-indulgences; Dane, his wife of ten months, who is obsessed with appearances and frightened of falling short and missing out, and impotent with frustration and duty; and John’s three-year old son, who chooses to remain mute, withdrawn, and beautiful.  Add in friend and analysis-patient Penelope, eager to reaffirm life but shallow as a puddle; the gorgeous and perfect French couple who stay in the crummiest rooms at the hotel; and the libido-charged Dutch artist with his photographing, child-beating wife, and what you have is a vacation from hell.

No one is murdered in the end but there is plenty of potential for homicide, misery, and adultery.  There is also drinking, dancing, and swimming.  The perfect getaway for neurotics who just can’t leave their psychoses at home or alone or hidden.  This is not the book to read before going on a family vacation, especially if your husband or wife has started to irritate you or your kids just seem smelly and annoying.  Save it for a cozy winter afternoon with all the gang gathered around, snug and content.  The contrast will send you reeling and you’ll read the book in a flash of entertainment.  If, on the other hand, you do not follow my advice, and take this novel along on your vacation, watch out!  The Perfectionists will underscore every imperfection that’s ever niggled, and send you running for the Prozac, the arm restraints, and the baby sitter.