A question of time, anthony powell
A Question of Upbringing – Anthony Powell
Call me morbid, but at the age of 60 I am conscious that time is running out and I have still to read some of the big works of western literature: Don Quixote, Moby Dick, A la Recherche du Temps Perdu. And then Anthony Powell’s 12 novel series, A Dance to the Music of Time, has also been looming. So I resolved to read a novel a year from Powell and Proust and get around to Cervantes and Melville at some point.
Thus, I have recently completed the first novel in Powell’s opus, A Question of Upbringing. The dust jacket has quotes describing the series as “the greatest novel since Ulysses” (Clive James) and “One of English fiction’s few twentieth – century masterpieces” (John Lanchester).
My overriding thought after reading the first novel is “Is that it?”.
Written in 1951, A Question is set in the early 1920s and centres on our narrator, Nick Jenkins.
In 230 pages, we have sections covering a few days at school (and a lame prank played by Nick and his friends on their House Master); another on a country house weekend and his summer holiday in France (featuring Scandinavians arguing over a drop shot at tennis); and then on to “the University”, where we meet the social fixer and mover, Sillery (an interesting character).
His odd Uncle Giles comes in and out as does the condescending Widmerpool, hanging over the novel like a dark cloud.
His friend Stringham features. Jenkins takes a shine to his sister, Jean.
That’s pretty much it. 230 pages.
I referred back to the seventh part of the rather wonderful Pelican Guide to English Literature, The Modern Age (1961) and looked Powell up. He features in Gilbert Phelps’ chapter on “The Novel Today”:
“…much of the world it communicates is incomprehensible to readers without the necessary caste – marks or passwords…”
I tend to agree. Thankfully, Waugh’s occasional racism and anti – semitism are absent, but like Waugh the novel is firmly entrenched in an upper middle class/lower upper class world that seems irrelevant today. This question of relevance seems to be plaguing many mid 20th century English novels, in my opinion. Even Greene, the greatest English writer of this period, seems less significant now: all that Catholic guilt when issues of race, class and gender equality are more of our time. It seems to me that the great nineteenth century novels resonate more with us today then these quotidian 20thcentury efforts, particularly as their characters are more universal and their themes more compelling.
That’s not to say that the book is poorly written. Powell is a lucid and at times very funny stylist. Those flashes of humour also frustrate slightly: it’s like watching a batsman play five forward defences, before rolling the wrists and gliding one away to the boundary, see him smile as if to say “Oh yea, I can do that, but you know, one has to save those shots.”
Fundamentally, I think the problem lies with our narrator, Nick Jenkins. Upon reflection, I have concluded he is deadly, deadly dull. We only see what he sees and he sees so little. He shows neither personality, opinions nor any strong moral position. The witty asides seem to come from Powell rather than Jenkins. We get little or no psychological insight into others or of Jenkins himself. He has little agency or motive. It’s like being served dry white toast and a glass of tap water.
Overall, I feel like I have watched the first episode of a TV box set and I’m faced with that dilemma of whether or not to make the commitment of time and emotional investment needed to finish the series. I think I’ll watch Episode Two and take a view from there.
But is it any good?
No drive, no drama and a dull protagonist. So, no, not really.