Britten died in 1976, and Kildea says that syphilis was responsible. This is a news-making claim or finding. He also says that Britten was "the 20th century's consummate musician", producing "a body of works and performances that was unrivalled" in that century. Britten was not just better than, say, Shostakovich, but unrivalled by him? Really?

As you have gathered, I didn't like this book very much and found some of it repulsive. I could not abide the sneering, the bitchiness, the judgmentalism. I am out of sympathy with the author and his subject: their biases, their attitudes, their views, their poses. But listen: this book is a major achievement. And Paul Kildea is a dazzling writer. Seldom will you encounter someone who writes so naturally and musically and well.

There are a million brilliant, beautiful or striking sentences in this very long book — 688 pages — but, churlish me, I will quote just about the only bad one I spotted. On page 370, Kildea writes: "He whipped through the orchestration at speed" — the only way to whip, really.

The book is researched to the nth degree, and Kildea is almost indecently learned. He stuffs this book with interesting facts, observations, and anecdotes. He also stuffs it with details — down to the price of things — yet the book does not bog down, moving forward with verve. I believe he understands Britten entirely.

Reading his book was an ordeal for me, for the reasons I've given. I haven't disliked a book so strongly in ages. But it deserves to win some big prize and, if I were on the jury, I'd vote for it.