I understand that the treatment of women as perpetually crying with gaping wet mouths while pink flesh puckers through holes in their tights is a POV thing, revealing the protagonist's misogyny and distaste for the physicality of femininity. Who refers to birds as 'feathered songsters', for heaven's sake? Dame Iris's philosophical alter ego is also much in evidence, and we are treated to long disquisitions on art and love which, while emphasising the self-reflexivity of the novel, also contribute to the protagonist 's verbosity and (pace this is an audio book) love of the sound of his own voice. The ponderous literary style, characteristic of the protagonist, is nonetheless so pompous and elaborated that I laughed out loud sometimes - when I wasn't telling him get on with it, we've got the point. The author knows what she's doing, but for me certainly, what she's doing is dated and irritating in the extreme. This is not to belittle the liveliness of the characters' exchanges or the cleverness of the plotting. Perhaps back then we were more tolerant of a self-centred middle-aged man droning on and on about his obsessions, but it makes for tedious listening now. It seems the way we read, and the way fiction is written, have changed a lot since 1973.
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