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Title: brutal going
Review: there's no music, as it were, in what a.s. byatt does: i have read three of her novels now and i'm, i think, in a pretty good position to judge her stuff as utterly pretentious and banal. read just one page of hers and compare it to a paragraph (a single sentence?!) of James Joyce. i am an english prof--hence all the lit allusions in this novel just kinda made me sick. she drops so many names/quotations you need an imaginary broom to sweep them away. dreadful dreck. you need something Englishy to read--investigate William Boyd or Julian Barnes. byatt is like a parody of good writing. only salman rushdie's fiction is more onanistic (though his criticism's pretty cool). byatt is the literary equivalent of Stevie Nicks! Icky!!!!
