By Anthony Powell
Written from a vantage element either excessive and intentionally slim, the early novels of the past due British grasp Anthony Powell however deal within the common subject matters that may turn into a considerable a part of his oeuvre: delight, greed, and the unusual drivers of human habit. extra explorations of relationships and conceit than plot-driven narratives, Powell’s early works display the stirrings of the unequaled kind, ear for discussion, and eye for irony that might succeed in their caustic top in his epic, A Dance to the track of Time. In Afternoon males, the earliest and maybe such a lot acid of Powell’s novels, we meet the museum clerk William Atwater, a tender guy stymied in either his specialist and romantic endeavors. Immersed in Atwater’s coterie of acquaintances—a equally unhappy solid of rootless, cocktail-swilling London sophisticates—we research of the clash among his humdrum paintings lifestyles and louche social scene, of his unrequited love, and, in the course of a visit to the rustic, of the absurd contrivances of right manners. A satire that verges on nihilism and a narrative touched with sexism and equivalent doses self-loathing and self-medication, AfternoonMen has a grim area to it. yet its discussion sparks and its scenes grip, and for aficionados of Powell, this primary installment in his literary canon may be a welcome window onto the brain of an exceptional artist studying his craft.
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Extra resources for Afternoon Men: A Novel
Sounds like a plan to me,” I say. 32 L i s a Dai l y We head home ﬁrst in our separate cars, slather on a little sunscreen, and change into our swimsuits and shorts. As I gather up the towels and beach chairs, Will spends a solid twenty minutes with his BlackBerry glued to his head, making calls to rearrange his day. We play together in the gulf, stroll along the sugary beach, picking up seashells. It is one of those perfect, sunny days, the very reason I love living in Florida. We hold hands from our beach chairs, giggling and talking like honeymooners, and chow down on cheeseburgers and cold beer at our favorite little beach bar.
Kendall leans forward inquisitively as I thank the receptionist and hang up, waiting for me to relay the answer. ” No Atlanta. The worst of it is that I’m starting to feel like we’re just scratching the surface. Kendall says she knew something was up, but she wasn’t sure what. She was afraid to tell me that she suspected Will had lied about why he was meeting with Sol because she feared for her job, nor did she want to pry into something so private as possible trouble in our marriage if I knew about it but wasn’t ready to talk about it.
No sooner does my head hit the pillow than the alarm goes off, with Sonny and Cher’s rendition of “I Got You Babe” blaring on the clock radio. Really? Sonny and Cher? Holy Groundhog Fif t e e n M in ut e s of S ha m e 41 Day. I sing along (off-key, I’ll admit) and giggle to myself. ” Today is my day. Fortiﬁed by four hours of sleep (plus an airplane nap and a car nap), I feel fabulous. Or, at least, functional. I look out my window at the city blinking to life below me. After a quick call to room service for a $65 plate of bacon and eggs and a Coke, I pop in to the shower.