Samuel Butler’s The Way of All Flesh, a scorching semi-autobiographical novel, doesn’t ring many bells today; you might struggle to find it in a bookstore (if you could first find a bookstore). Yet, at the dawn of the twentieth century, The Way of All Flesh crashed onto the English literary scene with the impact of a meteor; for the intellectual and artistic vanguard of a generation it stood as a brave, galvanizing indictment of a society the new breed was only too happy to see fading away. Skewering the Anglican church, the bourgeoisie, the universities, and above all the sclerotic Victorian class system, Butler’s novel follows several generations of the Pontifex family: prosperous, middle-class, religious, well-intentioned, and ultimately monstrous. While The Way of All Flesh has largely disappeared from view, its literary influence remains pervasive, from George Orwell, who was quite conscious of his debt to Butler, to any number of contemporary novelists who might not be aware of the roots of the irony in which they couch their tales. More importantly for readers, Butler’s understanding of the perils of pious convention has much to teach our own impious age.
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