John Crowley's novel, Lord Byron's Novel

John Porteous—who inherited, on the death of his own amazed and helpless sire, the singularly inappropriate title Lord Sane—was a catalogue of sins, not only the lesser ones of Lust and Gluttony but the greater ones of Pride, Anger and Envy. He wasted his own substance, and when it was gone wasted that of his wife and tenants, and then borrowed, or coerced, more from his terrified acquaintanceship, who knew well enough that the Lord would stint at nothing in revealing their own indiscretions, to which often as not he had tempted them in decades past. ... It was just such an outrageous act of destruction that had earned him the soubriquet, in a time that liked to bestow such, of 'Satan'.

That's from Lord Byron's Novel: The Evening Land by John Crowley, which I began in the car back from Alumni Weekend. The conceit, fifty pages in, is that someone has discovered a lost novel by Lord Byron, and we read chapters from it interspersed with painful and awkward emails from the discoverer to her lover back in the States. I know insufficient Byronalia to judge its success, but o such pretty prose.