Other than the unforgettable TV adaptation of Brideshead Revisited, I knew almost nothing about Evelyn Waugh’s novels before picking up a copy of A Handful of Dust in the Amsterdam branch of Waterstone’s recently.  I had thought for some time that I should do something about this gap in my reading, but two things deterred me.  First, by all accounts Waugh was a horrible man; a cruel, snobbish misogynist.  I’m not sure why this should matter, but it certainly influenced me. Second, I’d absorbed the impression (from where I’ve no clue) that his novels were little more than period pieces; brittle, superficial accounts of a society long past.

It’s easy enough to read A Handful Of Dust as a light comedy or social satire, a biting critique of the feckless, bored, and immoral upper classes of the interwar years, but it’s much more than that. However bitter and caustic its tone, there is at the heart of the book a real sense of sadness.  Tony and Brenda, trapped by their addiction to wealth, social status, conventional good manners and routine, occasionally touching sentimentality but always incapable of reaching and expressing genuine, deep feelings, are terrifying reminders of what can happen to the aimless and lightly rooted, however privileged their circumstances.  Published in 1934, it’s very much a novel for today.