I enjoyed Butler’s semi-autobiographical novel far more than Sons And Lovers. (And much more than A Portrait Of The Artist As A Young Man. Was there some requirement that turn-of-the-century novelists from the British isles write such a work?) Although written some 30 years earlier, I found it much more accessible to the modern reader. Framing the entire story as a second-hand account from someone who was occasionally involved in the plot but in general was told about things long after the fact helps, I believe. While it discusses weighty matters, the book is full of wit that seems fresh today. It is no surprise that Butler could not publish this during his lifetime; while much of what would have shocked the Victorians is commonplace now, few people would like to see themselves in the novel’s antagonists, as is inevitable. The first two thirds of the book are one of the greatest primers on what not to do as a parent, teacher, or other guardian of a child ever written. While I disagree with some of Butler’s philosophy and theology, he certainly anticipated postmodernism by more than half a century.
My only complaint is that the last tenth or so of the novel is quite weak. Perhaps I am missing something powerful, but to my interpretation it slowly peters out without anything noteworthy happening. The postscript in particular tells me nothing at all. Anyone who seriously wishes to be a good parent, teacher, or clergyman should read this critically and with a constant eye to their own thoughts and behaviors.