Looking away
Michael Wood, 18 May 1989
“... candour,’ or ‘there was ... an impenetrable thoughtfulness hanging on the air like scent.’ Edward Nesbit, the old poet, is vapid and boring about the distresses of the 20th century, and our need for the Great Secret, but no more than his character requires him to be. There is a small besetting flaw, Clarke’s equivalent to Ackroyd’s haziness. It’s ... ”