Peter Ackroyd’s novels, like his justly praised biographies of Oscar Wilde, T.S. Eliot and Charles Dickens, are narratively engaging and intellectually stimulating, perfectly wrought gems of intertextual craftsmanship that nonetheless suggest even if they never quite prove the existence of a world beyond the merely physical and the merely verbal as well. This is the world that Timothy Harcombe inherits from his otherwise impoverished, widowed father, Clement, a magician, medium, and faith healer. More specifically, the inheritance is English culture at its most canonical, the compositions, paintings, poems, plays, and novels that Clement collectively terms “English music” and in which Timothy finds a haven in the heartless, and for Timothy literally motherless world of London’s East End and a haven too from the confusions that beset Tim as he gropes his way to early manhood. From the relative security of 1992, Timothy looks back to life with and often without father from 1925 to the mid-1930’s before leaping ahead to the present in the novel’s last few pages.
That fairly straightforward story is told in the novel’s odd-numbered chapters. The even-numbered tell a different story, all in the third person and each in a different style (or combination of styles): the dreams triggered by events in Timothy’s life but rendered according to the literature he has read (or had read to him), the films and paintings he has seen, the music he has...
(The entire section is 440 words.)