The opening of Equinox—'Air like mountain air, like mountain water which hardly seems to be there when you turn the tap on, soap lathering on a caress'—daunts. But after this first froth of ad-copy it becomes a remarkably fine novel. Microscopically introspective, a thirty-ish wife tirelessly prods the dying nerve of her marriage. Her scientist husband is a smart-alecky vulgarian whose boredom flares into occasional irritated antagonism or sexual rough-stuff. Liz, hurt by neglect, wavers between vicious resentment and craven fear of the void ahead. Difficult to tell how conscious she is of speeding the break-up by her frigidity and peevishness, but this is revealed with an unblinking accuracy that gives the impact of truth. (p. 114)

Kenneth Allsop, "Cockroaches and Kools," in The Spectator, Vol. 216, No. 7179, January 28, 1966, pp. 113-14.∗