English writer Joyce Cary's free-spirited, impressionistic portrait of the artist, loosely based on his friend Dylan Thomas. Favoring an idiosyncratic style and sometimes puzzling grammatical choices (new dialogue is not always indented, for example), it's a rather sluggish read and neither its approach or themes have aged particularly well. I actually prefer the 1958 film, which Alec Guinness not only starred in, but wrote the screenplay for.
I understand the Joyce Cary is a very good writer -- his use of language and imagery is astounding, but unfortunately, I didn't like the story, the characters, the humor, or what he has to say.
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