In the hand of any other writer, a macabre little book such as this would come across as overwrought and fall apart from too much nudging and winking at the reader. But only a Brit of Evelyn Waugh’s superb wit and writing prowess could concoct a story of death, cemeteries, suicide, and Hollywood that expertly skewers the American way of life (and the writer’s own countrymen).

Whenever a discussion of satirical novels comes up, the two masterpieces I always think of are Terry Southern’s Blue Movie and Evelyn Waugh’s The Loved One. While the former is stuffed with Southern’s everything-but-the-kitchen-sink style of satire, Waugh’s tome is decidedly more British – spare, dry, and razor sharp in its humor. Southern was such a fan of The Loved One, he wrote a movie adaptation of the novel (although a very Southern-ized version that didn’t quite work as a film).

What still fascinates me to this day about the The Loved One is its perfectness. It is a small novel, almost a novella at 164 pages. But not a word is wasted. Each turn of phrase or change in tone is used to maximum impact.
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