Wesley Stace

I finished his newest novel today. Despite its awkward title, I found Charles Jessold, Considered as a Murderer a delightful romp into the heady realm of classical composition and performance. There were strains of David Mitchell initially, though I suspect I was recalling the Frobisher episode from Cloud Atlas.

The novel is overflowing with pithy puns and references to music and culture in the London of just before the Great War. There are also tremors of an unreliable narrator but the novel shifts gears before a Pale Fire parody and instead trots into graceful albeit predictable conclusion.

I have been antagonized today with sinus upheavals and this may temper some ambitions for the week.