There’s a thriller element that keeps you reading. This is a novel about art and its moral compromises, and The Violet Hour‘s tutelary spirit is that of Henry James . . . an enthrallingly intricate novel, with a large cast of characters whose stories and psychological hinterlands are successfully interlinked through the mesh of art, money and desire . . . impressive

There’s something of F. Scott Fitzgerald about the way Cahill writes about the very rich . . . Cahill writes with an artist’s attention to colour and detail, but also with an acute awareness of surface glitter

A biting satire of the art world’s glamour, pomp and greed . . . Offers a painfully accurate portrait of art dealers and collectors . . . it becomes clear that, in The Violet Hour, the art world is less a professional network than an arena in which psychosexual dramas might play out . . . lucid and evocative

An intriguing look at an industry built on appearances

The novel succeeds in showing how individuals erect barricades between each other and the ways in which memory and introspection can offer an escape from the present. The Violet Hour may be a novel about art, but even a self-avowed philistine will find much to chew on

James Cahill gets better and better. I really loved The Violet Hour, trying, and failing, to ration myself rather than reading in a greedy rush. Its evocation of the wonders of art and the dehumanising horrors of the art industry are spot on, of course, but as a novelist what I really admired was his narrative structure and sly choreography of his principal characters. On one level it functions as a highbrow whodunnit, and grippingly so, but it’s much more than that, building into a meditation on mortality and the unreliable consolations of art, love and materialism. I can’t wait to see what he does next

I stayed up way past my bedtime reading The Violet Hour and it’s brilliant. I’m really in awe of the prose, which is so elegant . . . and the human drama of it is just pitch perfect. I’m so glad to have read it . . . Hypnotic

The Violet Hour had the same effect on me as Tiepolo Blue did – again I’m overwhelmed by the beauty of James Cahill’s writing and storytelling. There is such mastery over language and character here, in this disarmingly immersive tale of the infinite potency – and at times the sense of the vacuous futility – of art and the artist

As sensuous and glimmering as it is dark and unsettling, The Violet Hour depicts the art world’s many troubling facets: glamour, money, jealousy, politics, moral corruption and betrayal. Written in Cahill’s rich, melodic prose, it’s a reflection on materialism, love, and the purpose of art, but more than anything, it is a pure delight to read. A novel to get sucked into

James Cahill has done it again. The Violet Hour is a thrilling story told in seductive, shimmering prose. Beauty, money, power, seduction, betrayal. It’s all here in this bewitching and all too often troubling backstage pass to the commercial art world

I greatly enjoyed this compelling and beautifully written novel, set in the rarefied world of high-end art, exploring the complex ambiguity and contradictions of contemporary life and personal relationships. I found the author’s eye and ear for the nuanced detail of today’s art world ritual unusually acute and often unnervingly familiar

Cahill allows us a private view of the art world in all its rancid glamour. The artist Thomas Haller – like Wilde’s Dorian Gray – has sold his soul. As painters, gallerists and collectors move between New York and the Venice Biennale, auction houses and apartments hung with Mapplethorpes or Picassos, a reckoning is coming. Pulsing with violence and longing, this is a sumptuous, sinister morality tale

A hugely enjoyable yarn by an author hitting his literary stride

The international contemporary art market is rich territory for a novelist, and James Cahill mines its excesses and absurdities with precision and panache

A tale told with thunder of an art world smitten with itself and peppered with characters who encapsulate the tremendous accomplishments, delusion and mysteries of art

A brilliant reimagining of T. S. Eliot’s world of fragmentation and fleeting social encounters, here filtered through the madness of the modern art market . . . It’s a novel of beautifully realised surfaces but also alluring (and sometimes alarming) depths, like a Rothko painting seen in vivid, vital glimpses

A riveting, immersive journey into the unsettling underbelly of the art world