Malcolm Lowry's "Under the Volcano" can reasonably be called a masterpiece, for whatever that term is really worth. At least it shows my own prejudice in favour of a novel which is probably out of favour today, and not sufficiently read by a new generation in search of, or besieged by, a devil within. A novel that can be read on many levels, it also contains pungent writing that carries the odours of a world that has been all but banished from North America today. It is, if you like, an unclean world, in which much is to be expected, little obtained. Whether from the religious rites, with all their devotions and ecstasies, or the characters who are more familiar to us (and who are sometimes smiling shyly to us from the edges of other novels by Graham Greene or Gabriel Garcia Marquez), much is promised, little given. But, as for the characters themselves, the disappointment that may greet us is only transitory, leaving us to march the march of faith on our own terms, and carry whatever remnant of the garment of civilisation we have managed to save to the last, on our voyage into the heart of this epic novel. And there lies its great strength; it is a novel with a beating, living, enervating heart and those who remain for the journey will surely be marked by it, as by all literature of this calibre.