Byrne

ISBN: 0099593017
ISBN 13: 9780099593010
By: Anthony Burgess

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Genres

Box 1 Currently Reading Default Eating My Grandmother Fiction My Library Narrative Poetry Poetry Poetry Narrative To Read

About this book

Byrne is Anthony Burgess's final work: an epic verse novel.Michael Byrne is a minor modern composer with greater talent in bed than in the concert hall. A bigamist, a charmer and a thug, Byrne sells his talents as a composer and painter, ending up in Hitler's Third Reich. He moves opportunistically from country to country and from bed to bed, leaving a small tribe of children across the globe. He then vanishes and the story passes to his children, including twin sons, one a doubting priest, the other sick of an incapacitating disease, who move across the troubled face of contemporary Europe before encountering their father in one final apocalyptic confrontation. Brilliantly readable, enormously funny and full of passion and energy, it is also Anthony Burgess's last powerful statement of life and art.

Reader's Thoughts

MJ Nicholls

A. Burgess and me agree that all art should aspire to the condition of music (we paraphraseth Walt Pater), both for the harmony of form and content, and the visceral impact music has on a listener’s nerve-endings, always stronger than responses to books or paintings or YooToob kittehs. More than any other novelist, Ant Burg spent his life inventing musical forms to contain his explosive, spontaneous creativity, whether in the musical play Blooms of Dublin, the orchestral novel Napoleon’s Symphony, or this swansong Byrne, a novel in verse. (He also recorded a musical version of A Clockwork Orange—don’t ask). Most critics and wine-swiggers are unanimous in their opinion that Anto Burge failed to musicalise the novel and create anything particularly innovative in the novel form (in terms of long-term usability), leaving behind a canon of daring experiments (i.e. failures) and almost masterpieces (i.e. not masterpieces). This novel in verse (in Byronian ottava rima stanzas) is full of the bawdiness of Chaucer and Rabelais, and far from revolutionising anything simply shines as another wacky entry in an eccentric and loopy bibliography of one the smartest, comb-fearing bruisers of 20thC lit. And for me, that’s enough.

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