After finishing A Handful of Dust (1934) by Evelyn Waugh last night, my first reaction was "man, this book hates the British upper class with a burning passion." That being said, the novel never makes the mistake of becoming a mere invective-laden screed; it skewers England's upper-crust society not by attacking it directly, but by showcasing the vapid lives and shallow thinking of its rich, aristocratic (and wannabe-rich, wannabe-aristocratic) characters. The fast, light pace of the book at times lessens the bite of its satire, but on the whole Waugh seems to have added in just the right amount of content to make his point and satisfactorily flesh out his plot and characters without bogging it down with minutiae and unrelated tangents. I don't want to spoil the ending, but I do want to say that I enjoyed the anti-colonial bent of it.
Well, that's one down, ninety-nine to go. This is fun.