Here, there--spending almost as much time in midair as a grasshopper (remember the more youthful Pandora--1973?), this is one of those novels which never seems to settle down long enough for you to know where you're at. And in the beginning you won't want to be there--up in the loft with elderly, untouched Mary Moon whose life consists of writing in her Special Accounts book before the visitation of an artist/tramp and one of the most hideous assaults on record. (Did she really live in that loft on top of the Candy Factory? Did she die there?) After these introductory sweets for the sweet, this rotates among various members of the personnel: Danny and Daphne, all liquescent sex; Beau Whitehead, who would have liked Daphne; Eve, secretary to the President Charles Hunter, and her feud with the Liberated Brigitte; Charles' wife Celeste, so social in her Courreges clothes--but not enough to hold him; etc. Sylvia Fraser has her own style, so distracting and distracted that it often demands more application than the average reader may be willing to accord all those quick changes, illusions, and suppurations of the flesh--even when tagged as ""sensuous.