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From: book reviews
Category: Art
Date: 08 April 2006
4 seasons, 12 books, and a month or two later I finish the powellster's (no relation of that other tricky pronunciation General Colon) magnum, icecream, opus, his attempt to be the anglo-Proust, to defeat the french at their own game of long ball and lives unfolded at smart parties.
Powell is no knockout. He is too light weight, too petty, with the casual sexism of his time, not accurate enough in observation or description, his sex prudish, his satire musty, and his vocabulary overblown and out of shape, his story never reaching either a univeral connection or the beauty of minutiae.
For all that I enjoyed reading A Dance, I loved its Enlgishness and evocation of London between wars and during ww2, its boy to man arc, its occasional genuine k.amis like humour, it kept me hooked. No masterpiece but an enjoyable way to hoover up a lot of words, keep the brain drained and achieve alord of the ring style reading marathon achievement.
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