John Cowper Powys (1872–1963)

What a slog. Interesting at first to read something so clearly influential to writers I hate, like Lawrence, and love, like Murdoch. The weird self-obsession of Wolf, and the intensity with which Powys delves into it, starts out fun but by half way, all the fun is gone (to quote Curious George). It turns into a Lawrencian mope-a-long in the company of a total drip. On the other hand you have a cast of real eccentrics, the satanic Squire Urquhart and the self-doubting vicar Tilly-Valley being typically Murdochian types. In the end though, I was completely unable to stomach another cup of tea, pointless self-reflective walk in the country, or obscure reference to someone’s “life illusion” or “mythology”.… (mere)