Do You Hate Yourself? Read This Novel.
If A Dance To The Music Of Time was a dinner, it would be a plain hamburger with no cheese, no ketchup, no mustard–nothing–with a couple of cardboardish rice cakes meant to substitute for delicious, crispy, salty french fries.
All of this would sit on a plain, white plate with a white napkin and white plastic utensils. Next to the plate, a lukewarm glass of water would sit. No lemon. No ice. No straw.
When you finished that meal, you would say, “I just ate the most boring meal in the history of meals.” That’s what you would say. And you would be right. But what if that meal was a series of books?
Why would you eat a series of books? You wouldn’t. But you might read a series of books, and these books might bore you, not unlike that awful hamburger and rice cake combination.
All of that is a horrible lead-in to say I’m approaching the halfway point in the “Year of The Dance”–which is my year-long read through the 3,000+ page behemoth known as A Dance To The Music Of Time by Anthony Powell–one of the novels on the Time list.
