Anthony Burgess famously competed with Gore Vidal over who had written more books (Burgess’ Wikipedia page runs far short of the number listed in “also by this author” in any book). It’s quite astonishing, given that he also spoke a ridiculous number of languages, wrote music, librettos and much more.
I’ve read maybe a dozen Burgess books and I just finished “A Dead Man in Deptford“, an exploration of Marlowe’s last years. The scholarship is astounding, it’s written in Elizabethan prose and it’s hard to fault. Anyone with pretensions at writing can only read and weep. It’s also charming and very funny.
