Not original. Not just in that the story of Anthony Blunt (or whatever kind of pseudonym he is hidden behind) is relatively well-known, but in that even Alan Bennett had written a fictional portrait of him well before Banville did.
And yet, for once, I'm thinking: who the hell cares? The story remains fascinating and one of the few things that occasionally make me feel a bit of nostalgia for Cambridge, and Banville is one of the greatest living authors.
So yeah, I thought this book was great, and thinking that The God of Small Things won the Booker that year makes me cringe a bit.
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