A recommendation from William Nicholson, The Blue Flower by Penelope Fitzgerald is a novel of sly wit. It is both a portrait of a time of intellectual ferment, with Goethe wandering in the margins, and a strange love story. Nicholson found it completely believable, the litmus test for any novel, but I see the author's winks and nods too often to be convinced. She writes, in any case, with a gorgeous style that reads like a combination of Evelyn Waugh and Anatole France.
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